Chapter 13
Thirteen
Addie
Despite the medication, which I’ve been taking diligently, I wake up the next morning queasy and having to go to the bathroom, like I do every morning. But I have to say, I was able to eat dinner and keep it where it should be yesterday, and I’m smiling a bit more than I usually do.
Yesterday’s crush party was rough in a few spots, but Luc’s hand in mine and his quiet steadiness made such a difference. I didn’t realize how much that would matter. I feel my smile stretch even wider.
I roll onto my side and focus on the familiar sounds of the apartment—the soft creak of the floor, the heater turning on. This is my space. My routine. My life, the way I’ve arranged it.
I glance at the clock and groan. It’s after nine. I should already be up, tea made, sketchbook open. Instead, I’m lying here, letting the morning proceed without me.
I don’t know when the Paradises will be ready to meet, so I need to get prepared to sit down with Sadie and whoever else is going to be involved about doing paintings of the four seasons of Paradise Hill.
I should go through my work and pull some ideas.
I’ve never done a four-season series before, but Paradise is beautiful all year round, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
I sit up slowly, aware of my body in a way that’s impossible not to be lately, everything feeling louder, heavier, more insistent.
There’s a knock at the front door, and I freeze. It isn’t aggressive or panicky, just a knock—casual, confident, like whoever’s on the other side expects to be answered.
Emma, I think. She’s the only one who would show up without texting first and not feel weird about it. I check the time again, frown, and then swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I pull on a sweater, run a hand through my hair, and head down the hall, already rehearsing some half-apology about sleeping in. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I reach the door, take a breath, and open it.
Evie stands on my doorstep, a giant bag of groceries in her arms and a smile in place. My stomach drops. I know this isn’t casual. She doesn’t just stop in for casual visits. She doesn’t visit.
For a second, I just stand there with my hand on the door.
Her smile is warm and steady. She’s perfected it over the years. She looks exactly like she always does—hair pulled back, a scarf at her throat, practical shoes. The grocery bag in her hands looks heavy enough to feed a family for a week.
“Well,” she says brightly. “You look like you just woke up.”
I blink. “I did.”
She laughs, already stepping forward. “Good. That means you’re not rushing off somewhere.”
Before I can answer, she adjusts the bag in her arms in a way that makes it clear she expects me to take it. I do, almost automatically, adjusting my hold to keep it steady.
While I’m occupied, she steps inside without waiting to be asked, her eyes moving over the room as if she’s cataloging it. She’s not openly critical, just measuring. The door closes behind her, and the apartment feels tighter than it did a moment ago.
“I thought you could use some healthy food,” she says, gesturing to the bag.
“Thank you.” I set the bag on the counter carefully. “I haven’t made coffee yet.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “I did.”
She pulls a travel mug from her bag and sets it beside the groceries like a peace offering. Steam curls up between us.
“You didn’t have to bring all this,” I say, gesturing at the counter. “You could’ve just…called.”
Evie waves that off. “I wanted to see you.”
Of course. She knows about yesterday’s crush party at Paradise Hill, and she wanted to confirm that I was pregnant.
She looks at me then, really looks at me—not just my face, but the oversized sweater, the way my hand settles at my stomach before I even realize I’ve done it.
Her expression shifts, softening. Something open and emotional moves through her eyes before she reins it back in.
“Oh, Addison,” she says, and she steps forward before I can brace myself.
She pulls me into a hug, gentle, but intentional. It lasts long enough to carry meaning. My shoulders tighten, and something inside warns me to be careful.
“I’m so happy,” she murmurs. “I can’t even tell you.”
I swallow. “It’s still…early.”
“I know,” she says, pulling back but keeping her hands on my arms. “That doesn’t make it any less real.”
I nod because doing anything else feels pointless.
She glances around again, eyes lingering on the open sketchbook on the table, the half-finished work drying near the window. Her smile turns nostalgic. “It’ll be good to have you and your son at the house,” she says. “I’ve always thought the place was too quiet without kids running around.”
I’m still processing that when she moves to the counter, unpacking the groceries with casual efficiency. Fresh fruit. Soup. Bread.
“I spoke with the moving company this morning,” she continues, “and they think they can have you packed, moved, and unpacked in a day.”
My heart rate picks up. “That’s really kind of you, but I’m not going anywhere.” I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.
Evie doesn’t respond to that. “So,” she says instead, lining up the apples. “How are you feeling?”
I consider my answer carefully. “Okay.”
She nods. “That’s good. We’ll make sure it stays that way.”
We.
This is the beginning of a conversation I don’t want to have.
Evie keeps talking as she unpacks, narrating in a matter-of-fact way that makes everything sound reasonable. “I didn’t know what you’d been craving,” she says, holding up a jar of tomato sauce. “So I just bought what I used to like when I was pregnant. Simple things. Things that sit well.”
She moves around the kitchen with easy confidence and excitement she’s not trying to hide. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a great-grandmother,” she says, shaking her head. “I keep thinking about it and then laughing out loud like a fool.”
The word great-grandmother hangs in the air.
She turns to face me, leaning her hip against the counter. “You look good,” she says. “Tired. But good.”
“Pregnancy glamor,” I say dryly.
She smiles, indulgent. “You’ve always been strong. You get that from me.”
I pull in a breath, but she keeps going before I can respond.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, “about what comes next for you.” She gestures vaguely, like she’s outlining a future in the air between us. “You shouldn’t have to worry right now. About rent. Or space. Or how you’re going to manage everything on your own.”
I straighten immediately. “I’m managing just fine.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I’m not saying you aren’t. I just mean…you don’t have to do it all by yourself.”
There it is again. The offer dressed as reassurance.
She pushes off the counter and walks toward the window, looking out at the street. “The main house has been empty too long. It needs life in it again. Children. Laughter.”
I swallow. “Evie—”
She turns back to me, eyes warm and unwavering. “You could have the rooms you grew up in. All of them if you wanted. There’s plenty of space. You could set up your studio in the sunroom. Paint all day if that’s what you feel like doing.”
The picture she’s painting is beautiful. That’s the problem.
“No rent,” she adds gently. “No pressure. Just family taking care of family.”
Gratitude and resistance tangle together, impossible to separate cleanly. “That’s…generous,” I tell her because anything else would sound ungrateful.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It’s practical.”
I nod, but my mind is already racing ahead, mapping the invisible strings attached.
“Your mother tells me you’re considering naming your son Henry, after your father.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Good. Because there are lots of options. Your grandfather was Robert and great-grandfather was James. You could easily name your son after them.”
Evie watches my face, and then she smiles, soft and knowing. “And you don’t need to worry about securing your future by cozying up to the new town doctor,” she adds. “You don’t need that kind of safety net.”
I pull in a breath. Of course, she’s the one to make that insinuation. That’s what I thought people would assume, and it seems she’ll lead the charge.
“You already have one,” she continues. “Right here with me.”
I take my hand back slowly, carefully, like I don’t want to startle her. Whatever Evie thinks she’s offering, she’s already decided the story of why I need it. And suddenly, standing in my own kitchen, I feel more exposed than I did holding Luc’s hand the night before.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I don’t like that she said his name without saying it, or that she thinks she understands what last night meant. “I’m not cozying up to anyone,” I say. “That’s not what this is.”
Evie tilts her head, unoffended. Patient. “Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way.”
But she did. We both know it.
She moves closer again, lowering her voice, as if she’s sharing something tender. “I just want you to know you’re safe, that you don’t need to make decisions out of fear or pressure.”
Fear. Pressure. As if those are the only reasons a woman might choose something for herself. As if that’s not exactly what she’s doing now.
I fold my arms. “I’m not afraid.”
She smiles at that. “You’ve always been independent. That’s one of the things I admire most about you.” She gestures around the room. “But independence doesn’t mean you have to refuse help when it’s offered. Especially now.”
Now. I glance down at my stomach again, irritation flickering. My body has become a conversation everyone feels entitled to join. “I didn’t ask him for anything,” I tell her. “And I’m not asking you either.”
Evie’s expression shifts—not hurt, but thoughtful. Like she’s recalibrating. “I know. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to figure everything out on your own.”
I take a slow breath. “I want to figure it out. On my own. That matters to me.”