Chapter 33
Thirty-three
Luc
I was surprised when Addie called, but I didn’t hesitate. I think mostly I was thrilled to have a tangible something I could do for her. I picked her up as she asked and drove until she finally told me to pull into Steaming Mugs.
Now, we’re sitting at the small table by the window. We’ve been here quite a while. She ate a muffin, and I think that was her dinner. I refrained from making any comment. But Addie finally speaks.
“I can’t stay at my family’s vineyard,” she explains, her voice controlled in a way that tells me she’s been managing herself for hours. “I won’t.”
I can’t imagine how this feels for her. And I’m so glad she felt she could call me. It’s hard not to step in and jump all over Evie, but that isn’t what Addie needs from me, so instead I just nod, listening and staying present.
“I don’t want to live somewhere that feels…arranged,” she continues. “Like I need her help.”
I hear Evie in that sentence, even though she doesn’t say her name.
“I don’t want to move in with anyone who’s going to watch me,” Addie adds.
“Or question every choice I make. Wait, who am I kidding? She won’t question my choices; she’ll just make them all for me.
And I certainly don’t want my son to have to deal with that.
She doesn’t get to damage another generation of Dempseys. ”
Addie falls silent, and her chest rises and falls. And I sit here and listen.
“I don’t want to trade one kind of control for another.” She looks at me then, her eyes searching, not for permission but for proof that I’m following along.
“I hear you,” I say, and I mean it in the most literal sense. This isn’t a negotiation.
She exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “I also don’t want to make this mess bigger by dragging my family into it.”
I nod again. That’s an important point.
“Evie would love that,” she says quietly. “Sides and accusations and a whole performance. I walked away from that on my eighteenth birthday, and I’m not going back.”
I nod again. “Okay.”
Eventually, we’re the last two left in the coffee shop, and the guy behind the counter is starting to look at his watch. I hope we don’t have to push Addie out before she’s ready.
“There’s something I should tell you,” I say after a moment. It’s good for her to have all the information at this point, I think.
“I rented a place before the holidays,” I continue. “A small cottage near here. It’s close to the clinic and hospital.”
Her brows lift slightly, in surprise, I think, but not alarm.
“It’s nothing elaborate,” I add. “Historic area. Quiet. Close enough that I can walk to work if I want to.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I continue.
“So far, it’s still pretty empty. But there’s a guest room if you’d like to use it. No pressure. And if you don’t, if you want to stay with your brother or one of your sisters, I can drive you. Or help you figure out logistics. Whatever you decide.”
She studies me, like she’s checking for fine print.
“I’m not asking you to move in with me,” I clarify. “I rented this place because it was right for me, and I wanted to have a nice place for the baby. But I’m offering you a place to land while you figure out what comes next.”
The quiet that follows is different. Less defensive. More thoughtful. “I think,” she says slowly, “bringing my family in right now would just light a match.”
I don’t argue.
“I need a little time,” she continues. “Somewhere neutral, and I think your place might work.” She meets my gaze again. “Just for now.”
“Then you can stay with me,” I say. “For as long as you need.”
She nods, the decision made, and immediately seems lighter. Not because the problem is solved, but because she’s found her footing again.
A few minutes later we head out, and the guy at the counter follows us to the door, locking it behind us. I direct Addie back to the car and head toward the place I now call home.
The cottage sits on a peaceful street lined with old maples and narrow sidewalks, and it’s less than two blocks from the beach on the lake. The days are very short right now, so when I pull up, the porch light is already on, casting a warm glow across the steps.
Addie pauses before we get out of the car. I don’t rush her.
“We’re in the historic district,” I say, looking for something neutral. “It’s a Craftsman-era house. Most of these places have been here longer than the hospital.”
She steps out and makes her way up to the porch first. The boards creak softly under our weight. The porch wraps around the front, wide enough for chairs that I haven’t bought yet, the railing solid beneath her hand as she leans forward and looks down the street. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
“They had it on the market to sell, but couldn’t find a buyer, so I’ve rented it.
” I unlock the door and step aside, letting Addie go in ahead of me.
The house smells faintly of fresh paint and wood cleaner, new beginnings layered over old bones.
The living room is sparse—couch, lamp, a stack of boxes pushed neatly against one wall.
No art yet. No softness beyond what’s inherent to the space itself.
“The bed just got delivered this week,” I say, resisting the urge to apologize. “I’ll keep adding to it.” I don’t tell her that I bought a full nursery set for our son. I’ll show her later.
She moves through the space slowly, touching the edge of the mantle, the trim around the doorway.
“There’s a guest room down the hall,” I tell her. “How about you take my room and I’ll take the guest room? I can sleep on the inflatable mattress.”
She glances at me. “Why would you do that?”
“I think your back would kill you after sleeping on the floor like that. Plus, I slept on the air mattress my first week here while I waited for the bed.”
She doesn’t argue or protest, just nods, absorbing the information the same way she has been all day—measured, careful, choosing what matters.
The guest room is smaller than the primary, but it catches the afternoon light through a single window that looks out over the side yard. I hope she’ll be here long enough to enjoy that.
I show her to the main bedroom. “I’ll get a few things out of the way, and you’ll be all set.”
“This works,” she says quietly as she steps inside. “Thank you.”
I lean against the doorframe. “Can I get you anything? I have glasses—maybe water?”
She turns toward me. “Thank you. That would be nice.”
What she’s responding to isn’t the house or what I’ve offered her, I remind myself. It’s the fact that nothing is being asked of her. I need to make sure I’m not reading into things, getting my hopes up.
I grab her some water.
Not too long after that, we both settle for the evening, and I lie on the air mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t know what this becomes. I only know I’m not giving up.
Early the next morning, I wake to Addie’s phone ringing. The house is otherwise quiet, and for a few seconds, I lie still and orient myself to the unfamiliar guest-room ceiling.
The thought of Addie under my roof in the other room calms me, rather than spiking my heart rate.
I move carefully as I get up, conscious of the thin walls. I gather my clothes and head for the bathroom, closing the door with more care than usual.
I can hear her talking in a low voice, her frustration evident.
My shower is quick. Steam fogs the mirror, blurring my reflection into something soft. I let the water run over my shoulders and try not to think too much about what comes next.
When I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, I hear her voice again.
It drifts down the hall, low, familiar, threaded with something careful. She seems less tense now, though not calm enough to be casual either. Family, I decide.
I don’t strain to hear the words. I stay where I am, moving through the rest of my routine at an unhurried pace. Toothbrush. Shave.
By the time I’m ready, the house feels different. Not louder exactly, but charged. Doors open and close. Footsteps—more than just Addie’s—cross the hardwood with purpose. A laugh breaks through, followed by something sharper underneath it.
I step into the hallway and recognize Ric’s voice without seeing him. Then another. Sera, clipped and precise. Josie’s softer tone mixes in, and Ginny’s carries from the living room, edged with disbelief.
The gang’s all here. And they’re upset, but not with Addie.
I pause at the end of the hall, giving them space even as I listen. Sera’s voice cuts through the others.
“At least she didn’t move you into the main house,” she says. “She set you up in Ginny’s old place, so you’d be on your own. She wouldn’t have to hover, and you’d still be free to come and go.”
There’s a beat of silence after that.
“But you know as well as I do,” Ginny says, “that living on the vineyard means she can dictate your life.”
“That’s already what she thinks she can do,” Addie protests. “She made a decision without talking to me. I left almost ten years ago. I haven’t missed living there, and I’m not going back.”
“Mom was thrilled about the possibility of having you so close,” Josie says with a sigh. “She had all these plans to take care of the baby.”
I lean my shoulder against the wall. This confirms what I already suspected, but hearing it said out loud makes it worse somehow. Evie didn’t miscalculate. She curated.
I don’t step in. This isn’t my conversation. My presence would tilt it in a direction that doesn’t belong to me. Instead, I wait, letting them speak freely and come to their own conclusions.
Eventually, though, I feel awkward eavesdropping, so I have to make my presence known. I check my watch before I step into the living room, more out of habit than urgency. It’s Saturday, and I don’t have anywhere I need to go.
When I walk out, Addie is standing near the window, her siblings gathered around her. Ric sits at the edge of the couch, forearms braced on his knees, but the girls are all standing, hovering and pacing, their energy restless.
I clear my throat lightly, so I don’t startle anyone. No one jumps, but they all turn toward me, curiosity and appraisal layered together.
“Morning,” I say.
I look at Addie. “Whatever you decide,” I tell her, “I support you.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something unspoken passes between us. Not agreement. Trust.
Ric nods, slow and measured. Sera studies me like she’s filing the moment away for later. I can feel the questions none of them ask, the judgments they may already be forming. I accept that.
“I just can’t believe she painted over the mural,” Josie says. “Are you going to paint it again?”
Addie looks out the window. “I don’t know.”
I know Evie will hear about this before noon if she hasn’t already. Then she’ll work on framing it however suits her best. Messy. Weak. Indecisive. And that’s how this will read in town.
But that’s not what matters. My goal is to be standing where Addie can see me, ready to step up when she asks.