Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Trudy
The men started filtering out as King pressed a kiss to Grace’s forehead. Stephen hugged his daughter and kissed the top of her head, then he crossed the room and stopped in front of me, leaning in close.
“Enjoy the party, darlin’,” he murmured. “I’ll see you later.”
“Stephen—”
He was gone before I could finish, and I was left standing there with my heart racing and my face burning.
“Oh my God,” someone said behind me.
I turned to find everyone in the room staring at me with identical expressions of delight.
“What?” I said defensively.
“Popeye was flirting with you,” Beck said, her eyes wide.
“He was not?—”
“He absolutely was,” Samantha cut in. “I saw the whole thing.”
“So did I,” Beatrice Allen added. “That man is smitten.”
“He’s not... there’s nothing... we’re not...” I sputtered, my face growing hotter by the second.
“Nana has a boyfriend,” Pati sang from across the room, and I shot her a glare that could have melted steel.
“I do not have a boyfriend.”
“He called you ‘darlin’,’” Kytten pointed out.
“He calls everyone darlin’.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Grace said, appearing at my elbow with a knowing smile. “He only calls you that.”
“Grace—”
“It’s cute,” she said. “Really. I think it’s sweet.”
“There’s nothing sweet about it because there’s nothing happening.”
“Sure, Nana,” Pati said, setting out plates. “Whatever you say.”
I wanted to argue. To insist they were all wrong. But the truth was, I didn’t have a leg to stand on. Because Stephen had been flirting with me since the day we met.
Shamelessly.
Relentlessly.
And God help me, I liked it.
The party got underway, and I tried to focus on anything other than the knowing looks the other women kept shooting me.
We played games guessing the baby’s weight and decorated onesies. There was a ridiculous competition involving diapers and chocolate bars that had everyone in stitches.
Grace opened presents, exclaiming over tiny clothes and blankets and toys, her face glowing with happiness.
And through it all, I couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen. About the way he’d looked at me. Touched me. Promised me things I had no business wanting.
“So,” Maureen said, sliding into the seat next to me during a lull in the festivities. “How long have you and Popeye been... you know?”
“We’re not,” I said firmly.
“But he wants to be.”
“That’s his problem.”
Maureen laughed. “You know you’re fighting a losing battle, right, Trudy?”
“I’m realistic,” I corrected. “I’m sixty-eight years old. I don’t have time for games.”
“And I was forty-nine when Bennett was born.” Maureen’s expression turned serious. “Popeye seems like a good man, Trudy. Declan has a lot of respect for him. And the way he looks at you...” She shook her head. “That’s not a game. That’s real.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Thankfully, Pati chose that moment to drop a bomb.
“Oh, Nana’s going to Harold and Edith’s anniversary party with Popeye,” she said casually, reaching for another cookie.
The room went silent.
Every head turned toward me.
“I am not,” I said through gritted teeth.
“He invited you,” Pati said. “I heard him.”
“And I said no.”
“Did you, though?”
I glared at her. “Patricia Elaine Rose, I swear?—”
“Wait, Harold Foster?” Beatrice asked. “That man was a fool to pick his children over you.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I appreciated Beatrice’s defense.
Harold.
Even thinking his name made something twist in my chest. Harold had been...
different. Not like Terry, who’d been steady and safe and predictable.
Harold had been passion and fire and late-night conversations that stretched until dawn.
He’d made me feel alive again after years of widowhood, made me remember what it was like to want someone so badly it hurt.
And then his children had gotten involved.
You’re not our mother. You’ll never be our mother. Dad’s making a mistake.
I’d told Harold it was fine. That I understood. That family came first.
But the truth was, it had gutted me. Watching him choose them over me, over us, over what we could have been. Watching him marry Edith six months later. Safe, boring Edith, who his children approved of because she didn’t threaten their inheritance or their memories of their dead mother.
Edith, who didn’t have children or grandchildren to compete with for Harold’s affection. As if the man could only love some many people.
I’d told myself I was over it. That it didn’t matter anymore.
But standing in that bakery with Stephen’s arm around my waist, watching Harold’s face go pale and Edith’s turn smug, I’d realized I wasn’t over it at all.
And Stephen... God, Stephen was nothing like Harold.
Stephen didn’t care what anyone thought. Didn’t care about propriety or appearances or what was appropriate for people our age. He wanted me, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. Wasn’t afraid to claim me in front of the whole damn town if that was what it took.
Harold had chosen his children.
Stephen was choosing me.
And that terrified me more than anything.
My heart was racing now, my breath coming shorter. I could feel the weight of every woman’s stare on me, waiting for me to say something, to explain myself. But how could I explain that I was scared? That at almost seventy years old, I was absolutely terrified of letting myself hope again.
Harold had taught me what hope cost. What it felt like to believe in something beautiful, only to watch it crumble because you weren’t enough. Because his children’s approval mattered more than your happiness. Because in the end, you were just the woman who came after, never the one who stayed.
I’d survived losing Terry. I’d survived losing Harold.
But Stephen... Stephen felt different. Bigger. More.
Because with Harold, I’d always known, deep down, that he would choose them. That his guilt over moving on from his late wife would eventually win. That I was temporary.
But Stephen looked at me like I was permanent. Like I was the destination, not a detour.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
What if I let myself believe it? What if I let myself fall, and then...
My hands were trembling in my lap. I pressed them together, hard, trying to stop the shaking.
You’re too old for this. Too old to be sitting here with your heart pounding like a teenager’s. Too old to be afraid of a man who tips a hundred dollars for a bear claw and looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world.
But I wasn’t too old to remember what it felt like to be left behind.
And I wasn’t sure I could survive it again.
“I’m not going,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
“You should,” Samantha said gently. “Show Harold what he’s missing.”
“I don’t care what Harold’s missing.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
“Liar,” Haizley said, grinning. “You totally care.”
“What I care about,” I said, my hands clenching in my lap, “is not making the same mistake twice. Harold taught me what happens when you let yourself hope for something that can’t last. When you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserve one more chance at happiness.”
The room had gone quiet, all eyes on me.
“And what happened?” Ellie asked softly.
“His children happened. Reality happened. The fact that I was a fool happened.” I swallowed hard. “I’m not doing that again. I’m not letting some man, no matter how charming or persistent or”— Devastatingly attractive—“whatever he is, make me forget that I’m too old for fairy tales.”
“But what if it’s not a fairy tale?” Grace asked. “What if it’s just... real?”
I looked at her, saw the hope in her eyes, and felt something crack inside me.
What if Stephen is different? What if this time...
No. I couldn’t let myself think like that. I looked at Grace, saw the gentle understanding in her eyes, and felt my defenses crumble.
“Grace—”
“I see the way he looks at you, Trudy. Like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.” Grace’s hand rested on her belly. “That’s not nothing.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
“Of what?”
“Of getting hurt. Of being foolish. Of...” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Of everything.”
Grace reached over and squeezed my hand. “That’s what makes it worth it.”
The party wound down eventually, and I helped clean up, grateful for the distraction.
Tyler and Nox emerged from the back room, both talking a mile a minute about motorcycles. Tank followed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Told you I’d keep ’em alive,” he said to Maggie.
Instead of answering, she stuck her tongue out at him, and he threw his head back and laughed. Tyler helped his mother load up the empty boxes into the car, and I gathered my purse, ready to escape.
“Trudy, wait.”
I turned to find Grace standing in the doorway, her hand on the frame.
“Can we talk?” she asked. “Just for a minute?”
My stomach twisted, but I nodded. “Of course.”
She led me to a quieter corner of the clubhouse, away from the lingering guests.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Grace began. “About not blaming you. I need you to really hear that.”
“I’m trying,” I said honestly.
“Good.” She smiled. “Because I don’t want you carrying that guilt anymore. You don’t deserve it.”
“Grace—”
“And I meant what I said about my dad, too.” Her expression turned mischievous. “He talks about you, you know.”
My heart skipped. “He does?”
“All the time. ‘Trudy this, Trudy that.’ It’s actually kind of adorable.”
“I don’t—” I said, shaking my head. “We’re not?—”
“Trudy.” Grace’s voice was gentle but firm. “It’s okay. You have my blessing. More than that, I’d be honored if you became my stepmother someday.”
The words hit me like a freight train.
Stepmother.
“Grace, that’s not... nothing’s happening?—”
“Not yet,” she said, her smile widening. “But it will. I can see it.”
“You’re as bad as he is,” I muttered.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She pulled me into another hug. “Thank you for coming today. It meant the world to me.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied, my voice thick.
When I finally made it to the car, Pati was waiting with a knowing grin.
“So?” she asked.
“So what?”
“What did Grace say?”
“None of your business.”
“She gave you her blessing, didn’t she?”
I didn’t answer, just started the engine.
But as we pulled away from the clubhouse, I caught a glimpse of Stephen standing in the doorway, watching me leave. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he stood—solid, immovable, like he was anchoring himself to the sight of me driving away.
He’s not going to let this go, I thought, my hands tightening on the wheel.
And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
The drive back to town was quiet except for Pati’s occasional commentary about the shower and Tyler’s excited chatter about hanging out with Tank and Nox.
I half-listened, my mind spinning with everything that had happened.
Grace’s words. Her blessing. The way Stephen had looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
What if Grace is right?
What if this is worth it?
The thought terrified me. At my age, I’d thought I was done with this kind of thing. Done with the racing heart and the sleepless nights and the constant awareness of another person’s presence. I’d had my time with Terry. I’d had my moment with Harold. Wasn’t that supposed to be enough?
But Stephen wasn’t Terry, and he sure as hell wasn’t Harold.
Stephen was dangerous in a way that made my pulse quicken and my defenses crumble.
“Nana, you’re quiet,” Pati said, glancing over at me.
“Just thinking.”
“About Popeye?”
“About nothing.”
She laughed. “You’re the worst liar.”
I pulled up to the bakery and parked, grateful for the distraction. Tyler unbuckled himself and scrambled out of the backseat, already talking about the leftover cake in the kitchen. Pati gathered her things, but before she got out, she leaned over and squeezed my hand.
“Don’t close the door on this before you even give it a chance.”
She was out of the car before I could respond, herding Tyler toward the apartment stairs. I watched them disappear inside, then sat in the quiet of the car for a moment, trying to catch my breath.
The drive to my house felt longer than usual. My mind kept circling back to the baby shower, to Grace’s words, to the way Stephen had held me like he had every right to. Like he wasn’t asking permission anymore; he was just claiming what he wanted.
And the terrifying part? I wanted to let him.
I pulled into my driveway and killed the engine.
My house was dark and quiet, exactly as I’d left it.
I grabbed my purse and headed inside, flipping on lights as I went.
The familiar space of my kitchen, my living room, my sanctuary, felt different somehow.
Larger. Like there was room for someone else now.
I poured myself a glass of water and sank onto the couch. I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost didn’t hear it at first.
A knock.
Soft but deliberate.
My heart stopped.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly nine at night. No one came to my house at this hour.
No one except...
I stood on shaky legs and walked to the door, my hand hovering over the knob. Through the peephole, I could see him. Stephen. Standing on my porch in the darkness, his leather jacket catching the porch light, his expression serious in a way I’d never seen before.
Some part of me had known he would come. The same part that had felt him watching me leave the clubhouse. The same part that had been waiting for this moment since the day he first walked into the bakery.
I opened the door.
“It’s late,” I said, though we both knew that wasn’t the point.
“I know.” His eyes searched mine, dark and intense. “I needed to see you.”
And standing there in my doorway, with the night stretching out behind him and the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us, I realized I couldn’t deny this anymore.
Not to him.
Not to myself.