Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Popeye
The television flickered in the dim light of Trudy’s living room, some crime drama neither of us was really watching.
She was curled against my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her body warm and soft against mine.
My fingers traced lazy patterns up and down her arm, shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, then back again.
Today had been good. Better than good. Watching Trudy work the bakery this morning, seeing her smile at customers, the way she’d blushed when I couldn’t keep my hands off her. Christ, she was beautiful. And she was mine. Openly, undeniably mine.
Simon had teased us. Beatrice had winked. Even Harold showing up couldn’t dim the satisfaction I felt watching him realize what he’d lost. Trudy fit into my life like she’d always belonged there, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, everything felt right.
Grace had given us her blessing. Trudy’s granddaughter Pati smiled every time she saw us. The town had accepted us. Hell, they seemed genuinely happy for us.
I should’ve been content. Should’ve been able to sit here with Trudy in my arms and just enjoy this moment, this peace, this rightness.
But my mind kept drifting.
The journal was tucked into the saddlebag on my bike, parked in Trudy’s driveway where I’d left it this morning. I hadn’t opened it once today. Hadn’t even thought about it, really. Or at least, I’d tried not to think about it.
But now, in the quiet darkness with Trudy pressed against me and nothing but the television’s glow to distract me, it was all I could think about.
What else was in there? What other secrets had Christina buried in those pages? What other truths was I going to have to face?
“You’re distracted,” Trudy said softly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
I blinked, realizing my fingers had stopped moving on her arm. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” She shifted, tilting her head to look up at me. “Just noticed you’ve been somewhere else all evening.”
I started tracing patterns on her arm again, buying myself time. “Just thinking.”
“About the journal?”
Of course she knew. Trudy always knew.
“No,” I said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Was thinking about you, actually.”
Her lips curved into a small smile, but her eyes stayed serious. “Stephen.”
“What?”
“You didn’t read it at all today.”
I looked down at her, at those sharp eyes that saw right through every defense I tried to put up. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I was a fucking coward. Because I didn’t want to know what else Christina had done, what other choices she’d made that I’d have to reconcile with the woman I thought I’d known.
Because every page I read felt like another nail in the coffin of whatever illusion I’d been carrying around for the past thirty years.
But I couldn’t say any of that.
“Was too focused on you,” I said instead, which was also true. Just not the whole truth.
Trudy studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sat up, pulling away from me just enough to turn and face me properly. “You need to finish it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She reached out, her hand finding mine. “Because it seems like you’re avoiding it.”
I was. Of course I was. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to leave the past buried, to stop digging up bones that were better left in the ground. I’d already learned more than I wanted to know. Already had to tell Grace things that had broken her heart all over again.
How much more could there be? How many more secrets could one woman keep?
And did I really want to find out?
“Maybe some things are better left alone,” I said quietly.
Trudy’s grip on my hand tightened. “You don’t believe that.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.” Her voice was firm, certain. “If you did, you wouldn’t have opened it in the first place. You wouldn’t have told Grace what you found. You would’ve burned it and never looked back.”
She was right. Goddammit, she was right.
I’d opened that journal because I needed to know. Because Grace deserved to know. Because Christina had left it for me, and that meant something. It had to mean something.
But knowing came with a price. Every truth I uncovered felt like another piece of Christina slipping away, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize. Someone who’d done things I couldn’t reconcile with the woman I’d loved.
Or thought I’d loved.
Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? Had I ever really loved her at all?
“What if there’s more?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended. “What if there’s something in there that changes everything? Something that makes it worse?”
“Worse than what you’ve already learned?”
I thought about Samuel. About Christina giving her body to men she didn’t want, making deals in the dark to keep her children safe. About Caroline holding a child hostage, about the plantation and the rescue and all the blood that had been spilled.
Could it get worse than that?
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m not sure I want to find out.”
Trudy was quiet for a moment, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “What are you afraid of?”
Everything. I was afraid of everything.
I was afraid of learning something that would make me hate Christina. Afraid of finding out she’d done something unforgivable, something I couldn’t explain away or rationalize or understand. Afraid that the more I learned, the less I’d be able to hold onto whatever good memories I had left.
I was afraid of what it would do to Grace. She was already processing so much. The truth about Samuel, about Caroline, about the choices her mother had made. What if there was more? What if there was something in that journal that would shatter whatever fragile peace she’d managed to find?
I was afraid of what it would mean for me and Trudy. Because the more I learned about Christina, the more I realized how different these two women were. How much more I felt for Trudy than I’d ever felt for Christina. And that guilt, that crushing, suffocating guilt—it was eating me alive.
How could I love Trudy more than the mother of my child? How could I feel more for a woman I’d known six months than the woman I’d spent years with?
What kind of man did that make me?
“I’m afraid,” I said finally, “that I won’t recognize her when I’m done. That whatever I thought I knew about Christina will be gone, and all I’ll have left is... this. These secrets. These choices she made that I can’t understand.”
Trudy nodded slowly, like she’d expected that answer. “And you’re afraid of what that means for Grace.”
“Yeah.”
“And for you.”
I looked away, focusing on the television screen. Some detective was interrogating a suspect, but I couldn’t hear the words over the roar in my head.
“Stephen.” Trudy’s hand came up to my jaw, gently turning my face back to hers. “You can’t protect Grace from the truth. And you can’t protect yourself from it either.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her eyes searched mine. “Because it seems like you’re trying to do exactly that.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I wasn’t trying to protect anyone, that I was just... what? Taking my time? Processing? Giving myself space to breathe before diving back into the darkness?
But that would be bullshit, and we both knew it.
I was hiding. Plain and simple. Hiding from the truth because I was terrified of what it would cost me.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said quietly. “I’ll read more tomorrow.”
Trudy studied me for a long moment, then nodded. She didn’t push, didn’t argue. Just settled back against my side, her head finding my shoulder again.
But I could feel the weight of her silence. Could feel her disappointment, even if she didn’t voice it.
She was right. I needed to finish it. Needed to know what else Christina had hidden, what other truths were waiting for me in those pages.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just wanted to hold Trudy and pretend that the past wasn’t waiting for me. That I could stay in this moment forever, with her warmth against my side and her steady breathing in my ear.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Even as I thought it, I knew I was lying to myself.
The bakery was quiet when I walked in the next morning, just a handful of early customers scattered at tables.
Trudy was behind the counter, her hair pulled back, her apron already dusted with flour.
She looked up when the bell chimed, and that smile, the one that had become just for me, spread across her face.
It was the kind of smile that made a man feel like he’d won something priceless.
Something passed between us in that moment, an understanding, a promise, maybe. Or a challenge.
I’d brought the journal.
It sat in my jacket pocket like a lead weight, pressing against my ribs with every breath. I could feel it there, could feel the pull of it, demanding attention I wasn’t ready to give.
But I’d brought it. That had to count for something.
I made my way to the window table, my table, the one where I’d sat dozens of times over the past six months. The one that had become mine by default, by routine, by the simple fact that I kept coming back.
I pulled out the chair and sat down, then reached into my jacket and pulled out the journal.
It looked innocuous sitting there on the table. Just a leather-bound book, worn at the edges, the pages yellowed with age. Nothing threatening about it. Nothing dangerous.
Except everything inside it was a bomb waiting to go off.
I stared at it, my hands flat on the table on either side of it, like I was trying to keep it contained. Keep it from exploding and taking me with it.
What else was in there? What other secrets had Christina kept? What other choices had she made that I’d have to explain to Grace, to myself, to anyone who asked?
And why the fuck had she written it all down in the first place?
That was the question that kept circling back. Why document it? Why leave a record of everything she’d done, every compromise she’d made, every line she’d crossed?
Was it a confession? Justification? A way to make sense of her own choices?
Or was it insurance? A way to make sure someone knew the truth, even if she couldn’t tell it herself?
I didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Not until I finished reading.
But sitting here, staring at that journal, I wasn’t sure I had the strength.
Footsteps approached, and I looked up to see Trudy coming toward me with a mug of black coffee and a plate with a bear claw. She set them down in front of me without a word, her expression soft but unreadable.
“I’m right across the room,” she said quietly. “If you need me.”
Then she walked away, leaving me alone with the journal and my thoughts.
I watched her go, watched her move behind the counter and start helping another customer. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hover. Just gave me space to do what I needed to do.
And somehow, that made it easier.
I picked up the coffee, took a long drink, then set it down. The bear claw sat untouched on the plate. My appetite had disappeared the moment I’d pulled the journal out of my pocket.
This was it. No more excuses. No more delays.
I needed to know what else Christina had hidden. Needed to understand the full scope of what she’d done, what she’d sacrificed, what she’d become in the name of protecting our daughter.
And I needed to know if I could live with it.
If Grace could live with it.
If any of us could move forward without the weight of these secrets crushing us.
I reached for the journal, my fingers brushing the worn leather cover.
How many more pages? How many more entries? How many more truths were waiting in this leather-bound journal for me to uncover?
The answer wouldn’t come from staring at it. Trudy was right; I needed to finish it. I needed closure.
And then maybe, just maybe, I could finally let Christina rest.
Maybe I could finally let myself rest, too.
I opened the journal, found my place, and started to read.