12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Wendy
Wendy had wanted an ordinary lunch. That was all. A toasted cheese sandwich, half a cup of coffee she might or might not manage, and twenty quiet minutes to review her recording notes before the doctor’s appointment.
Juniper Diner had seemed safe for that. The lunch crowd was thin, dishes clattered behind the counter, and the worn booth supported her back better than the desk chair in the guesthouse studio.
She drew a line through the opening sentence on her page – Missing a person isn’t the same as choosing them. True, but too sharp. Too close to a private question she had no business asking into a public microphone.
The waitress stopped beside her booth with the coffee pot in one hand. Silver streaked her dark braid, and delight made her eyes bright.
“I was wondering when someone would tell you,” she said, voice sounding conspiratorial.
Wendy set down her pen. “Tell me what?”
The waitress leaned closer with all the secrecy of a woman who clearly intended to share every detail she possessed.
“Your husband was sitting right over there yesterday afternoon.”
For one foolish second, Wendy looked toward the corner booth. It was empty.
“Hunter Trace was here?”
“As real as you are. Came in alone and waited by the door for a table like everybody else.” The waitress straightened. “Well, not quite like everybody else. Most people don’t cause three women to drop their forks at once.”
Wendy’s fingers tightened around her pen. She’d known Hunter could be anywhere. Still, she hadn’t pictured him here.
“When did he arrive in town?”
“Nobody seems to know. Yesterday was the first time anybody saw him.” The waitress lowered her voice another useless degree. “He might’ve been hiding out for a while. That’s the current theory.”
Wendy’s sandwich arrived on a white plate, brought by someone who worked in the kitchen, but she barely noticed it.
“What happened when people recognized him?” she asked.
“A little chaos.” The waitress sounded pleased to have witnessed it. “One man asked for an autograph. Then another. Next thing I knew, Mr. Trace was signing napkins and two of our menus. People wanted pictures. He stood up for every one, even though his food was getting cold.”
“Did he bring anyone with him?”
“Not a soul. No assistant, no security man, no manager, no press. He drove himself, ate alone, paid his bill like a normal person, and left me a very decent tip.” She glanced toward the counter when someone called for more coffee. “Wait. I haven’t gotten to the groceries.”
She hurried away.
Wendy stared at the sandwich. Melted cheese had hardened along one cut edge. She picked up half, then put it down without taking a bite.
Hunter was in Aria Springs.
She knew how to refuse a flower delivery.
A public speech would’ve made her angry, and an expensive apology would’ve felt like another effort to move her before she was ready.
She had no defense against the picture the waitress had handed her instead: Hunter waiting for a booth, eating alone, and signing a paper napkin while his lunch cooled.
The waitress returned before Wendy had managed a single bite.
“Someone saw him at the market later,” she said. “Pushing his own cart. A full one, not a basket. There wasn’t anybody following him or carrying things. Then a man says he saw the same vehicle turn toward Orchard Lane.”
“A man?”
“His sister heard it from a neighbor, so make of that what you will.” At least the waitress had the grace to look amused.
“Now everybody thinks your husband is staying in the little furnished bungalow out there. But that’s gossip, not fact.
The place was rented under a business name, supposedly, and whoever moved in used the key code.
Folks say there were delivery bags on the porch before yesterday, so he could’ve been keeping to himself. ”
Wendy tried to sort fact from decoration. Hunter had eaten here. Someone had seen him buying groceries. His vehicle might have turned toward Orchard Lane. Everything else had passed through too many mouths.
“Were there cameras?” she asked.
“Only the phones people pulled out after they recognized him. He didn’t bring any. Didn’t announce himself either.” The waitress studied Wendy more carefully. “I thought you knew he was here.”
“I didn’t.”
The pleasure faded from the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have dropped it on you like that.”
“You couldn’t know.” Wendy meant it. “Thank you for being clear about what you saw and what you heard.”
“That’s a very kind way to say I talk too much.”
“I was raised here. I know better than to ask Juniper Diner for quiet.”
The waitress gave her a relieved smile. “Eat the sandwich before I bring you pie and another problem.”
Wendy made herself take a bite after the waitress left. It tasted like warm bread and very little else.
If Hunter had been relying on contactless deliveries, he might’ve arrived days ago.
He might’ve been only a few miles away on their anniversary, remembering the same cheap takeout and keeping his silence because she’d told him not to contact her.
Or he might’ve arrived after the date had passed.
The waitress knew when he’d stopped being invisible, not when he’d come.
That missing date hurt more than it should have.
If he’d been nearby, he’d chosen not to approach.
Wendy couldn’t decide whether that was evidence of respect or only proof that he could live close to her without needing to see her.
Both explanations fit the same silence. She was tired of trying to read a whole marriage from what Hunter didn’t do.
Yet the grocery cart the waitress had mentioned stayed in her mind.
Hunter had never been helpless, but he’d grown used to other people removing the small labor from his life.
Someone stocked his kitchen, packed his stage clothes, organized his meals, and turned every trip into a schedule.
Wendy had been one of those people for years.
Now he was pushing his own cart through a market where anybody might stop him.
She pictured him carrying the bags into a dated kitchen. She supplied a table, one plate, and an empty chair across from him before she caught herself. She was furnishing his loneliness without knowing where he lived.
Worse, she missed him. Not Hunter Trace under stage lights. Hunter in an ordinary kitchen, stealing one of her dumplings after insisting he didn’t want any, laughing when she pretended she was surprised.
Wendy folded her notes, paid, and left most of the sandwich behind.
***
Her mother stood at the main-house kitchen counter cutting peaches. Her father sat at the table with a stack of mail and his reading glasses low on his nose. They both looked up when Wendy entered.
“Did either of you know Hunter is in Aria Springs?” she asked.
Her mom’s knife stopped against the cutting board. Her dad took off his glasses.
“No,” he said. The answer came without hesitation.
“He’s here?” her mother asked.
“He ate at Juniper yesterday. Apparently, he went to the market afterward. People think he may be staying in the Orchard Lane bungalow.”
Her father’s expression tightened. “Think?”
“His vehicle was reportedly seen turning that way. The rental story is gossip.” Wendy fully entered the kitchen. “Has he called the gate?”
“No.” Her father pushed the mail aside. “No gate calls, no vehicle at either entrance, and no security alert or request from staff.”
“A delivery?” Wendy pushed.
“Nothing.”
“Has he sent anyone? A lawyer, an assistant, anyone from his company?”
“No messages, visits, or intermediaries,” her father said. “If that changes, you’ll know before I answer them.”
Her mother set down the knife and wiped her hands.
“Hunter hasn’t contacted me, your father, or anyone here as far as we know. We wouldn’t hide that from you.”
“I know.” Wendy did know. She’d come to them because they didn’t make choices about her life in the name of protecting her. Still, relief loosened something under her ribs. “I needed to ask.”
“You can ask every time you need to,” her mother said.
Her dad stood. “He won’t enter this property unless you expressly permit it.”
“I don’t want a confrontation,” Wendy clarified.
“Neither do I.” His voice stayed level. “Protection doesn’t require one.”
Her mom moved closer but didn’t touch Wendy until Wendy reached for her hand.
“Do you want us to confirm where he’s staying?” she asked.
The offer tempted her. One phone call could turn the bungalow rumor into an address. She could learn the date the rental began. She could solve at least one piece of the anniversary question.
“No,” Wendy said. “If he’s staying away from us, I don’t want to go looking for him.”
Her father nodded.
“Do you still want to record today’s episode?” her mother asked.
Wendy looked at the folded notes in her hand. “Yes. I need to do it before the doctor’s appointment.”
Outside, she followed the garden path toward the guesthouse.
Dry leaves broke under her shoes, and the oaks kept most of the sun off the path.
Hunter might be somewhere beyond the property, close enough to shop in the same stores and drive the same roads.
The knowledge changed nothing she’d asked of him.
It only made the distance harder to pretend was simple.
In the spare-room studio, Wendy closed the door and sat at her desk. She adjusted the microphone arm, placed the listener letter beside her notes, and took several slow breaths. Her first page contained three lines that no longer sounded like guidance.
If someone cancels the thing that hurt you, is that choosing you?
If someone stays away, is that respect?
If someone remembers and says nothing, does remembering matter?
She drew a line through all three.