17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Hunter
Wendy’s name lit up Hunter’s phone. For one second, he couldn’t breathe.
He sat at the kitchen table in the Orchard Lane bungalow with his phone next to a plate he’d forgotten to clear.
The avocado-green refrigerator buzzed behind him, and his guitar lay in its scuffed case near the wall.
Nothing had changed since he last checked his phone.
Everything had changed.
Wendy: Are you still in Aria Springs?
Hunter read the message three times. Relief hit first, so sharp it hurt. Hope followed before he could stop it, building a whole future out of six words Wendy might’ve sent because she wanted information, closure, or a final goodbye.
He opened the message thread.
Yes. I’ve been waiting for–
Delete.
Yes. Wendy, I can’t tell you how–
Delete.
He put the phone down and pressed his hands against his eyes. Wendy had opened the line of communication. That didn’t give him the right to crowd it.
At last, he typed:
Hunter: Yes. I can meet you wherever and whenever you choose.
He read it once and sent it before fear could add anything. The answer came several minutes later.
Wendy: Tomorrow afternoon. The overlook. 3 PM?
Hunter: I’ll be there.
That night, he slept badly and woke up with three versions of a speech in his head.
He could explain Vesper Hill to Wendy. He could tell her about every contract he’d canceled and every order he’d given.
He could apologize until language lost all shape.
Each version began with what he needed her to understand. He let them go.
In the afternoon, he drove to the overlook alone. He brought nothing with him. No flowers and no gifts, and he didn’t know if it was the right way to meet her. He would let her decide. He arrived early and stood near the low stone wall with his hands empty.
The valley spread below him in green and faded gold.
Vineyard rows covered the slopes. Old roofs clustered around Main Street, and the roads beyond them led toward homes and histories that belonged to Wendy before Hunter ever arrived with a broken truck and a borrowed guitar. She was from Aria Springs, he was not.
The wind carried a cool edge. Hunter shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, then took them out again. He didn’t want Wendy to see him as a man braced for a verdict.
Her car turned into the pull-off.
His whole body moved toward her before he stopped himself.
Wendy parked several spaces from his truck. She remained behind the wheel for a moment, looking through the windshield at him.
Hunter didn’t go to her door. He waited. When she stepped out, his relief gave way to alarm.
She wore dark pants, flat shoes, and a soft blue sweater under a light coat.
Her blonde hair was tied at the back of her neck.
She looked thinner than when he’d seen her last, and there was a careful quality to the way she straightened after leaving the car.
Fatigue shadowed her blue eyes. In her gaze sat a grief he didn’t recognize.
Every old instinct in him demanded action. Cross the distance, take her bag, ask who’d hurt her. Put her in his truck and find someone who could fix whatever was wrong.
He held still.
Wendy shut the car door and walked toward him. Her gaze moved over his face, shoulders, hands, and finally, the wedding ring he still wore.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” His voice came out rough. “Thank you for asking me here.”
She nodded. They stood several feet apart, the stone wall to one side and an empty bench behind them.
Hunter wanted to tell her she looked beautiful. She did. She also looked breakable.
Wendy drew a breath.
“You followed me here,” she said. “To Aria Springs, I mean. You figured out that I’d come here, and you followed me.”
There it was. She didn’t say it in an accusing way. It was no more than a true statement.
“Yes,” he said.
Her chin lifted slightly, as if she’d expected a defense and was preparing to meet it.
Hunter gave her none.
“I told myself being close wasn’t the same as contacting you. I stayed away from your parents’ property. I didn’t call, send anyone, or try to call you from another number.”
“I know.”
“But you didn’t invite me to Aria Springs,” he said softly.
The wind lifted a loose strand of Wendy’s hair against her cheek. She tucked it back without looking away from him.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
“I decided the distance I kept made my being here harmless. That was another decision I made without you.” He swallowed. “If you want me gone, I’ll leave.”
Her expression changed, not softer, but less guarded.
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Not easily.” He wouldn’t lie to make the answer prettier. “But yes. If my being here makes this town feel less safe or less yours, I’ll go.”
“Where?”
“Back to Los Angeles. Or somewhere else.”
Wendy looked toward the valley.
“When did you come?”
Hunter had known the question might arrive. Knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
“A few days after you left Los Angeles.”
Her face went still.
“You were here on our anniversary,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I remembered, of course. I wanted to say something, but you’d blocked my number, and I didn’t know if it was okay to email you or try some other way.”
She nodded slowly, still not looking at him.
“Because you told me you needed me not to contact you,” he continued. “The date didn’t make that boundary disappear.”
Pain moved across her face. Hunter felt it like a hand around his throat.
“I almost ordered our usual takeout,” she said. “I kept waiting to find out whether you remembered or whether staying away was easy.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
Wendy folded her arms, then released them as if the pressure hurt. The small movement sharpened Hunter’s concern, but he didn’t ask yet if she was all right.
She met his gaze again. “I’m not asking you to leave.”
He nodded, waiting for her to explain.
“That isn’t forgiveness, and it isn’t me saying you were right to come.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.” He held her gaze. “You get to decide whether my presence here feels like pressure.”
Wendy watched him for a long moment. “I’m not ready for the full apology. Whatever you prepared for today, don’t say it.”
“I respect that.”
“And I’m not making a decision about our marriage, either. That’s not why I asked you to meet.”
“I know.”
“You hope I’m going to… Make a decision about our marriage.”
Hunter could’ve denied it. The lie might’ve sounded respectful.
“Yes,” he said. “ But this meeting doesn’t have to be more than you want it to be.”
Something in her shoulders eased.
They moved toward the stone wall without discussing it. Wendy sat first, choosing the end nearest her car. Hunter remained standing until she glanced at the open space beside her.
“You can sit.”
He sat far enough away that their coats didn’t touch. Below them, a truck moved along a vineyard road. The small shape vanished behind a row of trees. Wendy looked down at her hands. He noticed she was still wearing her wedding ring, just like him.
“Thank you for telling the truth about the song,” she said.
Hunter’s chest tightened. “You should never have needed me to correct a story I created.”
“I listened to all four tracks, by the way.”
He wanted to ask what she thought. Whether she believed him.
“You didn’t have to,” he said instead.
“No, I didn’t.” She glanced at him. “They weren’t easy to listen to.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not because they were cruel.” Wendy rubbed her thumb over her ring. “Because some of them were accurate.”
Hunter let that sit between them. He didn’t reach for gratitude just because she’d offered truth.
“The calls from reporters at my parents’ gate almost stopped after your video,” she continued. “People still write to the podcast email, but fewer of them demand that I explain what happened between us. Mom can go into town without someone asking whether I’m filing for divorce.”
“Good.”
Wendy gave him a tired look. “That’s all?”
“I’m glad it helped. But it should’ve happened before anyone needed to ask you anything.”
She looked toward the valley again. “You really aren’t going to ask if the video changed how I feel.”
“No.”
“You want to.”
“Very much.”
The corner of her mouth moved, almost a smile. “At least that’s honest.”
“I’m trying a new thing.”
Her faint smile disappeared, but not because he’d offended her. Grief settled over her face again, deeper than the space between them.
Hunter kept his hands still on his knees.
“Vesper Hill,” Wendy said. “Eli told me the option can be assigned.”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“To you, an entity you control, or another buyer you choose.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you refuse. You won’t owe me the option fee, the preservation costs, or an explanation. If the option expires without another buyer, I take the loss.”
“What if I decide I don’t want a retreat anymore?” she asked.
The question hurt because Hunter could hear what his years of postponement had done to her certainty. He answered the question she asked, not the sorrow beneath it.
“Then you don’t build one. You can direct the option somewhere else or let it go. Preserving the place doesn’t decide what you have to want.”
Wendy studied him. “You really left every permanent choice blank.”
“Rafael would’ve thrown me off the property if I hadn’t.” He laughed.
“Rafael doesn’t seem impressed by you.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk.
“He handed me a wheelbarrow before he’d finished introducing himself.”
This time, Wendy’s mouth curved fully.
Hunter’s heart stumbled.
“He was right,” she said.
“He usually is. He also has a gift for finding the heaviest object and deciding I should move it.”
“You did build a career by convincing crowds you were strong.”
“Turns out that isn’t accepted as a preservation qualification.”
Wendy laughed. It was small and brief, but it was hers. Hunter hadn’t heard that unguarded sound in person since before the Hollywood Bowl. Every part of him wanted to reach for it, hold it, make it happen again.
He didn’t move.
Her laughter faded into a softer silence.
“Have you listened to my podcast?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Even though I never made it for you.”
“Especially because you didn’t.” Hunter looked down at his hands. “At first, I treated every episode like you were telling me how to get you back. I finally understood that I was making your work serve me again.”
Wendy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And now?”
“Now I listen because it’s good. Because you and Lily make me laugh. Because the people who write to you sound less alone after you answer them.”
“If I asked you to stop?”
“I’d stop.”
She considered that. “It’s public. You can listen. But don’t quote my own podcast at me during an argument.” She raised a brow at him, as if in challenge.
“That feels like a rule I should’ve known without being told.”
“You should’ve known several of those.”
“Yes.”
The answer remained plain. Wendy held his gaze, then nodded.
“How’s the bungalow?” she asked.
“The refrigerator buzzes louder than the air conditioner, and freezes lettuce while warming everything I actually want cold.”
“Have you considered changing the setting?”
“I found the setting after several days.”
“Hunter.”
“There are two dials. One is hidden behind a plastic box that may have been white during a different century.”
She shook her head. “How are you feeding yourself?”
The familiar question warmed him and also warned him at once. He couldn’t turn her concern into work.
“Badly, but independently. I made tomato sauce with cilantro because I thought it was parsley.”
Wendy stared at him. “How much cilantro?”
“The whole bunch.”
“And you ate it?”
“There was pasta involved. I had committed.”
Her laugh came again, stronger this time. “You own a bourbon company and half a record label, but a green herb defeated you.”
“In my defense, both labels started with a P in my head.”
“Cilantro doesn’t start with a P anywhere.”
“That may explain the problem.”
For a few breaths, they were simply Hunter and Wendy. No cameras, no campaign, and no careful division between injury and defense. He could almost feel anonymous hotel carpet under his boots and hear her laughing while he tried to make dinner with a coffee maker.
Then Wendy shifted on the wall. Her breath caught.
Hunter’s smile vanished. He waited until she settled before asking:
“Are you all right?”
Her gaze dropped to the gravel. “No.”
The answer struck harder than reassurance would have.
He leaned forward, then stopped.
“Do you need help?”
“Not the kind you can give without knowing.”
“Then tell me what you need right now.”
Wendy looked at him. Her eyes shone, but no tears fell.
“I went through something difficult after Lily left. I’m still recovering. I can’t tell you about it yet.”
Questions crowded Hunter’s mind. Was she sick? Had someone threatened her? Why hadn’t anyone called him? The last question exposed the old claim under all the others. He had no right to be called.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Not until you choose. Not ever, if that’s what you need.”
Wendy searched his face. “You’re not going to ask another question?”
“No.”
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But noticing her pain didn’t give him ownership of it.
“If there’s practical help you want and you don’t want to explain why, you can ask,” he said. “If you don’t want anything from me, I’ll respect that too.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
The light began to fade across the valley. Wendy pushed herself to her feet with one hand against the stone. Hunter stood but didn’t offer his arm. They walked toward the cars with a careful distance between them. Near Wendy’s car, she stopped. Hunter stopped too.
She looked down at his left hand. “You kept your ring on.”
“Yes.”
“The whole time?”
“The whole time.”
She bit her lip. “Me too.”
Wendy stepped closer. Hunter’s breath caught when her fingers touched his. She slid her hand into his palm with care, as if testing whether the old shape of them still existed. He didn’t close his hand until her fingers curled around his.
Warmth moved through him. The remembered instinct to pull her into his chest came so hard that his shoulders ached with holding still. He held her gently.
Wendy looked at their joined hands instead of his face. They stood that way until she loosened her grip.
Hunter let go at once.
She opened her car door, then turned back. “Would you meet me again next week?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t ask where. He didn’t ask what it meant.
Wendy got into her car and drove away.
Hunter remained at the overlook until her taillights disappeared down the road, the warmth of her hand still held inside his.
The smallest hope required the greatest care.