20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Wendy
Several weeks after Hunter learned about the baby, Wendy stood in the guesthouse kitchen and stirred lemon sauce through pasta while his truck came up the drive. Her mom and dad knew he was coming. It was his first time on the Loom property since she came home.
The guesthouse no longer looked like a place where she waited for life to restart.
Her work calendar covered the refrigerator, client files sat locked in the studio, and printed listener letters filled trays on her desk.
Her music played from a portable speaker on the kitchen counter, and dinner cooked in her pans.
Her choices. Her home.
Hunter knocked even though she stood where he could see her through the glass. Wendy wiped her hands and opened the door.
He wore dark jeans and a blue button-down with the sleeves folded back. His beard was freshly trimmed. In one hand, he held the loaf of bread she’d asked him to pick up from the bakery in town.
“I followed instructions,” he said, lifting it slightly. “One loaf. No flowers hidden inside it.”
“Good. Petals are terrible with pasta.”
His smile came slowly. “Can I come in?”
Hunter had once entered every room she occupied as if the space came with him. Now he waited on the worn stone step with a paper bag in his hand.
Wendy moved aside. “Come in.”
He stopped near the door and looked over the mismatched cushions, her mail, the chipped mug, and the open studio door.
“It feels like you,” he said.
“It does.”
He looked at her, and she saw that he understood the part she hadn’t said: The Hidden Hills estate never had.
“Do you want to see the studio?” she asked.
“Yes.” He waited. “If you want me in there.”
“I asked.” She shrugged.
Hunter followed her into the spare room without touching the microphone or her notes. Wendy showed him the adjustable arm, recording schedule, and simple video light.
“The blankets are gone,” he said.
“Mostly. One stays behind the bookshelf for the echo.”
“I liked the blankets.”
“You never saw them.”
“They were in your public return video.” His expression turned careful.
Wendy laughed. “You don’t need a legal defense for noticing a blanket. Ask where the edges are and believe me the first time.”
“I will.”
She led him back to the kitchen. Hunter asked what she wanted him to do, and she gave him the bread knife and a cutting board. He cut uneven slices while she finished the pasta and dressed a bowl of greens. They ate at the table beside the window instead of carrying their plates to the living room.
They talked about the progress of her new practice, Rafael banning Hunter from old plaster, Lily’s conflicting curriculum ideas, and Eli’s claim that cinnamon chili came from a region he refused to name.
Hunter stole the last piece of bread from Wendy’s plate.
“You brought an entire loaf.”
“That piece looked better.”
“You can’t prove that.”
The old joke felt warm. Familiar without being automatic.
When the plates were empty, Wendy carried them to the sink and left them there. She’d spent too many years cleaning around conversations she feared might become difficult.
“There’s something else I want to do tonight,” she said.
Hunter’s expression sharpened, but he waited. “Okay.”
Wendy brought the Vesper Hill document case from her studio and placed it on the table. The tabbed pages carried notes from independent professional advisers. Hunter took the chair across from her.
“I’ve decided to accept assignment of the option,” she said. “Not personally. My attorney created an entity that I control. If the final inspections and purchase terms hold, that entity will take title.”
Hunter’s breath left him. “You still want it.”
“I do.”
Joy flashed across his face, but he kept both hands on his side of the table. “Then it’s yours.”
“It will belong to the entity. And I need us to be exact.”
“Go ahead.”
“You won’t have ownership, a board seat, naming rights, approval rights, or a claim against the property if our marriage fails.”
“Agreed.”
“I haven’t finished.”
“Sorry.”
“The retreat’s clinical program, staffing, screening, privacy rules, and treatment standards are mine to direct.
Lily and I will build the curriculum together.
If your money contributes to the purchase or restoration, the terms must be set in a written, unconditional gift agreement executed before closing.
No repayment, no interest, and no claim against the property.
No private deal with a contractor. No business expense that becomes a tax reason for your company to claim a role. ”
“Agreed.”
Wendy watched him. “That fast?”
“I read the draft your attorney sent mine after you gave permission. My contribution is yours if your entity accepts it. No conditions. It’s what I offered.”
“I don’t want you saying yes because you’re afraid one disagreement will send me away.”
Hunter leaned back. “I’m afraid of a lot tonight. The documents aren’t one of those things. I don’t need a piece of Vesper Hill.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“That I’ll hear what you need and turn myself into whatever shape keeps you from leaving. Then one day, I’ll resent rules I never honestly accepted.”
The answer wasn’t smooth. Wendy trusted it more because of that.
“I don’t want obedience,” she said. “I want a partner.”
“Then I should tell you the touring part scares me.”
“It scares me too.”
“I love performing. I won’t promise I’ll never take a long run again and make you responsible for the part of me that misses it.”
“I’m not asking you to stop being a musician.”
“I know. I’m saying I want shorter runs built after we decide what our life needs. I want Aria Springs to be home. If something unusual requires more time away, I bring it to you before I sign, announce, hold dates, or let anyone spend money.”
“And if I say the cost to our life is too high?”
“Then we keep talking. I don’t turn your ‘no’ into a delay I can outlast or go public to trap you.”
Wendy ran one finger along the document tab.
“There can’t be another romantic campaign,” she said. “Not one that avoids direct lies while selling the same lie through pictures and suggestion.”
“There won’t be.”
“Firm boundaries with collaborators. No private-looking content designed to make fans wonder. No one touches our marriage for promotion. That includes using reconciliation, separation, grief, or this property to make you look redeemed.”
“Yes.”
“My podcast isn’t a Trace property. Your staff doesn’t advise it, monitor it, place guests, sell ads, or protect your image through it.”
“It stays yours.”
“So do my clinical income and professional decisions. We’ll have shared finances where we both choose them, but I need accounts and work no one can turn into part of your company.”
“I want that for you.”
Wendy held his gaze. “What happens when you’re frightened and your first instinct is to make the fear my job?”
Hunter looked down at the table, thinking rather than retreating.
“I tell you I’m frightened. I don’t hand you the fear and expect you to make it disappear. I keep my own therapist, if that’s what I need, friends, and support. I hire a smaller team whose authority ends at business. I don’t make you my manager because you love me.”
“I want your feelings,” she said. “I don’t want you hiding hard things because you’re scared I’ll call them emotional labor.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Telling me you’re struggling gives me a chance to be your wife. Making me responsible for whether you function turns me into your treatment plan.”
Hunter nodded slowly. “If I cross that line, tell me.”
“I will. But noticing it can’t become another job you give me.”
“No. I need to learn the line well enough to catch myself.”
Wendy looked at her home, the documents she’d reviewed, and the man who no longer rushed to fill every silence.
“I don’t know what happens to Hidden Hills in Los Angeles yet,” she said.
“We decide together.”
“I know I want my life centered here. My work. Vesper Hill. My parents close.”
“I want that too.”
“I’m not counting your days in Aria Springs anymore. I don’t want you to leave town.” Wendy’s pulse picked up as the words became real. “Stay at Orchard Lane until I ask for something different, but you belong in the life we’re building here.”
Hunter closed his eyes. His breath shook before he opened them again. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a reward.”
“No.” His voice was rough. “It’s space you’re choosing to make for me. I know the difference.”
“I don’t want our old marriage back.”
“Neither do I.”
“I want a marriage where I don’t disappear. Where you answer me even when the answer costs you. Where we can both want large things without deciding only one life has room.”
“That’s the marriage I want too.”
Wendy searched his face for the charming agreement, the soft promise, the quick way past discomfort. She didn’t find it.
“You changed before you knew about the baby,” she said. “You kept changing after I told you. You didn’t turn our grief into a reason I had to take care of you, and you didn’t use it to claim me.”
“I never want our baby used for anything,” he said.
“I know.”
Her medical follow-up had confirmed that her body had healed. Grief hadn’t ended, but pain didn’t have to vanish before desire could be true. What she wanted wasn’t escape, repayment, or a substitute for the baby.
It was her husband.
Not the marriage that had made her small. The man who’d learned to stand beside her without asking her to shrink.
Wendy rose and walked around the table.
Hunter looked up at her. “Wendy?”
“I’m choosing you.” She took his face between her hands, felt the familiar texture of his beard against her palms, and bent until her mouth nearly touched his. “And I want you.”
She kissed him before he could answer.
Hunter’s hands settled at her waist without pulling. Wendy deepened the kiss herself, sliding her tongue against his and stepping between his knees. His breath broke against her mouth.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.
“I don’t want you to stop.”