Chapter 3
Chapter three
Maeve
I wake to quiet. No city traffic. No upstairs neighbors. No phone buzzing on the nightstand. The light through the small window is soft and pale. It makes the room look simple and clean. I breathe easier than I have in weeks.
I shower and pull on jeans and a sweater. I braid my hair and put on a little bit of mascara and lip gloss. My phone has one unread message from Connor.
Connor: Text me when you’re up. You good?
Me: I’m up. Safe. Thank you.
He replies almost at once.
Connor: Stay alert. Trust Graham.
I stare at the last part and feel something pinch in my chest. I type back before I can overthink.
Me: I do.
Down the hall, the cabin is quiet. The counter holds two mugs upside down, drying on a towel. Graham isn’t here. Through the window, I see tracks in the frost from the porch to the workshop.
I scribble a note and leave it on the counter: I’m going into town for a few things. Need groceries. Will be back by noon.
The road into Pine Hollow winds between tall pines and scrubby maples. The town spreads around a square with a green, a gazebo, and a ring of shops that look unchanged. I park near Dottie’s general store and cafe. The bell above the door rings as I push in.
Dottie stands behind the counter with her hair pinned up and a pencil behind one ear. She looks up, squints, then grins.
“Well, I’ll be. Maeve Prescott.” Her voice turns loud enough for everyone to hear. “Get in here, girl.”
I laugh and let her pull me into a hug over the counter. She smells like White Diamonds. “Hi, Dottie.”
“You here visiting your brother?” she asks, already reaching for a menu.
“Connor’s still deployed.” I set the menu aside. “I’m around for a few weeks. Maybe longer.”
Dottie’s eyes soften. “Coffee and some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
I slide into a booth. Two elderly men by the window nod in greeting. One of them says he remembers me from the Fall Festival years ago. I remember him, too, handing out apple slices to impatient kids.
Dottie brings coffee and a plate of cinnamon toast without asking. “You always liked this,” she says. “You were a skinny teenager who needed to eat more. Now you’re a grown woman who still needs to eat more.”
I take a bite. It’s so much better than anything I’ve ever made for myself. “Thank you.”
The bell rings again. Annie from the bakery down the street steps in with two boxes cradled in her arms. She wears a dark sweater and a bright scarf. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. She sees me and smiles widely.
“Maeve. You’re back.”
“Hi, Annie.”
She slides the boxes onto the counter. “Apple tarts for Dottie. She insists mine sell better in her cafe than in my own display case.” She leans on the counter and studies me. “How long are you in town?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Need a part-time job?” She says it in a casual voice that feels sincere. “Mornings at the bakery can get busy. No pressure.”
I blink. “Maybe. Thank you for the offer.”
“Think about it.” She glances at Dottie. “I’ll come by for coffee later.” She squeezes my shoulder and heads out, calling goodbye to the men by the window.
Dottie sets down a plate with eggs and ham. “Can’t run on toast alone.” She lowers her voice. “Are you staying with Graham or in your brother’s cabin?
Warmth climbs into my face. “With Graham.”
Dottie’s mouth tips. “He’s a good man. Stubborn as a tree stump, but that’s a different problem.”
As I eat, people filter in and out of the store.
A woman with a toddler asks about knit caps.
Two high school boys come in arguing about a basketball game.
The town hum is steady and comforting. No one looks at me like I’m a problem.
No one seems to know why I left the city.
Relief sits in my throat and makes it hard to swallow.
After breakfast, I go up and down the aisles, grabbing some food for the cabin.
The aisles are narrow and unorganized. I fill a basket with pasta, rice, canned tomatoes, oatmeal, tea, soap, and matches.
Dottie rings me up and adds a small discount without mentioning it.
She slides a paper bag across the counter with two wrapped cookies. “For later.”
As I walk to my car, I run into Maisie at the door to the flower shop. I know she recently returned to town and married Ford. She stands with a clipboard and a pen tucked behind her ear. Her hair is down, and she wears a navy coat and fingerless gloves. She lights up.
“Maeve Prescott,” she says. “I heard you were in town. I thought Connor was still out of the country?”
“He is,” I don’t want to explain why I’m here, so I keep talking. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.” She glances at my bags. “Need help?”
“My car is right there.” I lift the handles. “Thanks, though.”
She shifts the clipboard to one arm. “I know you’re staying with Graham. Do you have what you need? Blankets? Space heater? He is stubborn about keeping the thermostat low.”
I laugh, then sober. “I’m okay.”
She studies me. Not nosy. Not prying. “If you need anything, come by the shop. I mean it.”
“I will.” I pause. “Thank you.”
She nods, then steps back inside the flower shop, and I head to the car. The wind pushes sharply against my coat. I load the bags and drive back up the ridge.
When I turn into the drive, Graham stands outside the workshop. He walks over and takes half the bags without asking. We bring everything into the kitchen. He sets the bags on the counter.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“You’re not carrying all that in alone.”
I busy myself unpacking because his attention feels heavy. He watches me sort things into cupboards for a few seconds, then reaches for a bag and starts putting things away too. He places the pasta with the pasta sauce and lines up the cans by type in clean rows. Orderly. Precise.
“You went to Dottie’s,” he says.
“Yes.”
“She fed you, didn’t she?”
“Of course.”
His mouth tips. “Good.”
We work in silence. When we finish, he wipes his hands on a dish towel.
He nods and starts toward the door. “I’ll be at the shop.”
I follow him to the door without thinking. “Can I help later? With anything small?”
He pauses, hand on the knob. “You don’t need to.”
“I know.” I lift a shoulder. “I want to help, be useful.”
He studies me. “I’ll think about it.” He steps outside.
I sweep the kitchen, wipe the counter, and start some soup for dinner. The act of chopping and stirring settles me. By noon, the cabin smells delicious.
The hours drift. I do laundry in the small utility room. I fold towels and set them on the shelf. I read ten pages of a book and realize I haven’t absorbed a single line. The quiet starts to skitter across my skin. I put on music at low volume. A simple guitar line fills the space.
By late afternoon, the light begins to disappear. The trees outside the windows turn dark and flat against the sky. I pull on a thick pair of socks and stand in front of the heater vent until my toes stop aching from the cold.
My phone buzzes.
Connor: How’s your day been?
Me: Good. I went to Dottie’s, picked up some groceries, and made soup. It’s quiet here.
Connor: Any trouble?
Me: No.
There is a beat.
Connor: I called Graham. He said you look less tired today.
Heat creeps into my face. I start to type a joke and delete it.
Me: He is looking out for me. Don’t worry.
Connor: That’s my job. I wish I were there.
Me: I know, but I’m fine, and what you're doing is essential. I’m so proud of you. Love you, big brother.
Connor: I’m proud of you, too, little sister. I love you too.
My throat tightens. I answer with a small heart and put the phone down.
The workshop door opens outside. I hear the low roll of the cart he uses for tools, then the soft slam of the shop door closing again. I move to the window without meaning to. Through the trees, I can see the workshop lights, warm squares cut into the gray early evening.
I try to read again and give up. The quiet grows. I turn the music up a notch and move around the kitchen. I set the table and stir the soup one last time. I’m not sure if I should wait for Graham to eat or not.
When he doesn’t come back inside by six, I sit and eat at the table by myself. When I’m finished, I stack my bowl in the sink and run water to wash it.
The music track changes to something slow with a steady beat. I should turn it down. Instead, I reach for the volume and leave it. I sing along loudly while washing the dishes from dinner.
The front porch creaks.
I freeze as Graham comes inside. Heat floods my face. I really hope he didn’t hear my terrible singing.
I keep my back to him. My chest rises and falls. I reach over and turn the volume down.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is steady. “There’s soup in the refrigerator. I wasn’t sure when you were coming in.”
“Thank you. How has your day been?”
“Good, I texted with Connor and did some laundry.”
I leave Graham to eat and head back to the guest room. I change into flannel pajama pants and a soft shirt. I sit on the bed and open my notebook. I have not written here in months. I pick up a pen and write the date. Then I write:
I am safe.
I set the notebook aside and crawl under the quilt. Sleep does not come right away. My body hums from the steady motion and from the attention through the glass. I turn my face toward the window. The pines shift in the wind. My eyes finally close, and I drift off to sleep.
Sometime later, I wake to a sound from outside. A fox yips far down the ridge. A branch taps the roof. I roll to my other side and try to keep my breathing steady. What would happen if I went down the hall and knocked on Graham’s door? Could I pretend I had a bad dream and ask to snuggle?
There’s no way I would ever really do it, but thinking about it makes me happy in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
***
I wake up hours later and the cabin smells like fresh coffee. I blink into the light and sit up. A sheet of paper waits on the floor just inside the guest room door. My name is on it in block letters.
I pick it up. One line of writing sits under my name.
Lesson at ten. Wear old clothes and your boots.
Under that, a small sketch of a mallet and a chisel.
I dress in an old sweatshirt, jeans, and boots. I pull the braid over my shoulder. In the kitchen, there’s a fresh pot of coffee. I pour a cup and smile. Today is going to be fun.
At ten sharp, I walk across the yard to the workshop. The door stands open. The smell of sawdust and oil wraps the room. Graham waits near the workbench with an extra set of safety glasses and hearing protection.
He points to a stool near the planer. “Rule one,” he says. “Protect your eyes and ears.”
I slip the glasses on and adjust the band. He checks the fit and nods.
“Rule two,” he says. “No loose sleeves near the machines. Hair tied back. Hands away from blades.” He pauses. “I will repeat this until you get sick of hearing it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will,” he says. A hint of a grin lifts one corner of his mouth. “Rule three. Ask before you touch.”
I nod.
He grabs a length of pine and shows me how to hold the block steady. He talks through each step as he does it in a steady voice. The hum of the planer fills the space and shakes the floor through my boots. He cuts the machine, and the silence feels deafening.
“Your turn,” he says.
I take off my sweatshirt, thankful I put on a tank top underneath, and put it on a bench across the room.
I return to the planer and mimic his stance.
He stops me once to adjust my grip and once to move my feet.
His fingers press lightly against my wrist for a second.
My stomach flips and then steadies. I feed the pine through, one pass and then another.
He checks the wood and gives a short nod.
“Not bad.”
The praise lands quick and sharp. I try not to show how much it matters.
We work for an hour. He shows me how to mark a straight line. How to read the grain. How to use a chisel without gouging the wood. When I get something wrong, he doesn’t laugh. He demonstrates the right way and nods when I correct it.
At the end, he picks up a small scrap and hands it to me. “For practice.
I put the scrap in my pocket. “Thanks for the lesson.”
He turns away as if to give me an exit, but I’m not ready to leave.
I step in until I can see the small flecks of sawdust in his beard. “Thank you for letting me learn how to do what you do.”
We stare at each other for several tense seconds. “You’re welcome,” he says at last.
I nod and step back. “I’m making enchiladas for dinner,” I say. “Will you join me around six?”
“I’ll be there.”
I walk to the door and look back once over my shoulder. He stands where I left him, steady and unreadable in the center of the shop. Then his mouth tips just a little, a small smile just for me.
I carry that slight curve with me across the yard and through the rest of the day.