Chapter 29 Reverie
Reverie
The room is steeped in quiet, the kind that feels sacred.
Moonlight filters through the thin curtains, painting pale silver across the bed where Clara lies draped against me, her cheek pressed to my chest. My arms hold her close, greedy for her warmth, greedy for proof that she’s here—not memory, not dream.
Her soft sighs rise and fall with the rhythm of my breath, each one sinking deeper into my bones.
I press my lips to the crown of her hair and close my eyes. For decades, I’ve carried the ghost of this woman, the echo of her touch. Now she is here, real and fragile in my arms, and I don’t know how to do anything but cling to her.
“I love you,” I murmur into the stillness. The words come raw, unpolished, but truer than any prayer I’ve ever whispered.
She lifts her head, eyes shining in the moonlight. Her fingers trace along my jaw, delicate as a breath. “I love you too, Marcel.”
The ache that’s lived in my chest for so long breaks open. My hand cups the back of her neck, drawing her down to kiss me. It’s soft, unhurried, but it wrecks me more than anything else ever has.
When we part, I can’t hold it back. The words tumble out, urgent, trembling. “Stay, Clara. Stay here with me. Don’t go back to whatever shadows were pulling you away. Please.”
Her breath catches. For a moment, fear flickers in her eyes, as though she might retreat into all the reasons we shouldn’t. But then it’s gone, replaced by something fierce and tender all at once.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. “Yes, Marcel. I’ll stay.”
The world shifts on its axis. My throat tightens, my chest heaves with relief so sharp it hurts. I pull her tighter against me, burying my face in her hair, holding on like she’s the only tether I have left.
Then I feel the change, I don’t feel like a ghost waiting to pass. I feel whole. Because Clara is here. And she’s staying.
Her yes hangs in the air between us, soft but devastating, like it could shake the walls if the house were listening. I press a kiss to her temple, then to the freckles on her nose, then trail one to her jaw until she gives a half-laugh, half-sob that trembles against my lips.
“You’re relentless,” she murmurs, her palm splayed over my chest as if to steady herself.
I grin against her skin. “I’m a man who’s been waiting his whole afterlife for you.”
It earns me another laugh, wetter this time, her shoulders shaking as tears slip free. I brush them away with my thumb before they can fall further. “No more crying tonight, Firefly. Not here. Not in my arms.”
“I can’t help it,” she whispers, smiling through the shimmer in her eyes. “I feel twenty and a hundred all at once. My heart can’t keep up.”
I take her hand and kiss her knuckles one by one, slow and reverent. “Then let it rest here. With me.”
We lie like that, her steady in my arms, letting our souls tangle in the quiet.
After a long moment, she exhales. “What will Eli think of me staying?”
I huff a low laugh. “Eli? He’ll probably mutter that I’m a damn fool for letting you slip away once, and an even bigger fool if I don’t hold on now.”
Her brows lift. “So you think you know exactly what he’ll say?”
“I do,” I say, tracing idle circles on her arm. “The man would never admit it, but he’s soft about love. He’ll bless it. You’ll see.”
Her lips curve, reluctant but hopeful. “Then we’ll tell him in the morning.”
“In the morning,” I echo, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She nestles closer, her laughter low and tired. “Imagine us, confessing to Eli like two teenagers caught behind the barn.”
I chuckle into her hair. “Don’t give me ideas, Firefly.”
By the time we make it to the kitchen, Eli is seated at the table, as he rifles through a stack of yellow invoices. A half-eaten biscuit rests on the plate beside him, crumbs scattered.
He looks up when we enter—first at me, then at Clara. His brows rise, and a slow smile stretches across his face.
“Well,” he says, setting the papers aside. “Didn’t expect to see the two of you appear so early this morning.”
Clara flushes, fumbling with the hem of her sleeve. “Eli, I—”
He holds up a hand, chuckling. “I don’t need your words, Clara. I’ve got two eyes and a lifetime of sense. You don’t need to explain what’s plain as day.”
I settle into the chair opposite him, Clara beside me, leaning forward. “Still, we wanted you to know. We’re…Well, Clara is going to stay. Devil’s Ridge will be her home, with me.”
Eli studies us for a moment, his gaze sharp but kind.
Then he exhales, leaning back in his chair.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. The way you two look at each other—it’s the same way Silas and Caroline looked at each other.
And I’ll tell you now, I’d be a damn fool to stand in the way of love when it shows itself. ”
Clara’s hand finds mine under the table, her grip tight with relief. I squeeze back, feeling something uncoil inside me.
Eli reaches for his coffee, his mouth twitching with that dry humor of his. “Just promise me one thing, you two. If you’re going to keep each other up until dawn, do it on a night when I don’t have to be up early in the morning.”
Clara’s cheeks flush crimson. I laugh, shaking my head. “Eli, I’ll thank you to keep your wisdom to yourself.”
Clara rises from her chair, still pink. “I need coffee for this conversation.”
Before she can reach the pot, the sound of tires crunching over the gravel drive drifts through the open window. Eli frowns, leaning back to listen. “That’s not Grace’s car. She doesn’t drive like she’s escaping the law.”
Moments later, a firm knock rattles the door, followed by a familiar voice that carries more cheer than the morning has earned. “Were you planning to let me just stand out there, Eli Montgomery, or are you too busy gossiping over biscuits?”
Eli groans, rubbing his temples. “Lord help us, it’s Ruth.”
And there she is—Ruth Montgomery in all her glory, wrapped in a bright shawl and a grin that could shame the sun. “I brought pie,” she declares, hoisting a basket. “And before you say anything, yes, it’s apple. No, I didn’t poison it.”
Clara smiles, soft but curious. “You must be family.”
Ruth eyes her from head to toe, assessing with the affectionate scrutiny only women of her sort can muster.
“And you must be the reason Eli’s been humming again.
I’m Ruth Montgomery—Eli’s sister, resident meddler, occasional psychic, and, apparently, the only one in this family who remembers how to bake. ”
I stand, grinning. “Clara, meet Ruth. She’s got the sight, too.”
Ruth blinks at me, then looks back to Clara, her tone light but edged with wonder. “You’re her, aren’t you? The one he’s been waiting for.”
Clara’s brow furrows, her voice trembling slightly. “Wait—your last name is Montgomery?”
Ruth’s grin deepens. “It is.”
Clara’s hand flies to her mouth. “Irene…Was your grandmother’s name Irene?”
Ruth nods, amused. “It was. Eli and I grew up hearing stories about her—sharp tongue, big heart, couldn’t mind her own business to save her life.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Sounds familiar. Meddling must run in the family.”
Ruth winks, settling into a chair. “It does. And it looks like we’ve come full circle, doesn’t it?”
Eli leans back in his chair, shaking his head with a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. Grandma Irene must be grinning from ear to ear wherever she is. She’s got her ghostly fingerprints all over this.”
Ruth laughs, reaching across the table to swat his arm. “Language, Eli. Grandma’s probably listening.”
He grins, eyes softening as they drift toward Clara and me. “Then I hope she sees that she’s still matchmaking from the other side.”
The air warms with something that feels like peace.
Ruth’s laughter fades into a knowing smile, and even Eli’s usual skepticism gives way to quiet wonder.
For the first time since I can remember, it feels like the house itself is exhaling—like every soul, living or gone, is finally exactly where it’s meant to be.
Ruth sets her mug down, that familiar spark of mischief already dancing in her eyes. “So,” she drawls, “what grand adventures are on the agenda today?”
I glance toward the window, the faint rumble of an approaching car in the distance. “My granddaughter’s on her way,” I say, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my mouth. “Grace. You’ll like her, Ruth, she’s got more of Clara’s fire than she realizes.”
Ruth’s brows shoot up, her grin widening like a sunrise. “Ah, the famous Grace that Eli’s been carrying on about.” She presses a hand to her chest with exaggerated awe. “Well, would you look at that? Our Marcel’s a grandpa.”
Clara laughs softly, the sound bright and easy—God, I love that sound. “Grandpa suits you,” she teases, her cheeks blooming pink.
I hook an arm around her waist, tugging her just close enough that only she can hear me. My breath brushes the curve of her ear as I whisper, “Careful, Firefly, or I’ll have to remind you of how this ‘grandpa’ wrecked you last night.”
Her breath catches, that blush deepening until it paints her throat. She swats at my chest, but the corner of her mouth betrays her with a trembling smile.
I lift my coffee cup, fighting the urge to grin. “What?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Just making conversation.”
Then, from outside, comes the crunch of gravel under tires, the slam of a car door. The air shifts—expectant, bright.
Eli looks toward the window, his voice calm but laced with something tender. “That’ll be Grace.”
Ruth stands, smoothing her blouse, her grin pure mischief. “Well,” she says, tilting her head toward me, “let’s go meet the girl who brought your Clara home.”
Eli doesn’t hesitate—he moves to the door, pulling it open just as Grace raises her hand to knock. Morning light spills across the threshold, framing her in soft gold. She looks younger today, though her eyes still carry that sharp curiosity.