Chapter 9
Nine
Swayze
It was getting well on toward the dinner hour by the time Dee and I made it back to his mama’s.
I had a half dozen new-to-me and very stylish outfits from his shop, and we’d made a run to the next biggest town with a Walmart so I could restock on legitimate basics like underwear and toiletries.
Given it was Black Friday—insult to injury—that took longer than I’d expected, but I did manage to pick up a new phone, and with it regained access to my online payment wallets, which meant I’d been able to pay for those basics myself.
I’d tried to Venmo Dee for the value of the clothes, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
I recognized that my own discomfort with generosity was treading perilously close to insult, so I swallowed it down.
I’d just have to take control of my circumstances some other way.
Elsie was already in the kitchen when we came in carrying the bags with all of my purchases. “Well, it looks like y’all had a productive afternoon.”
“We’re certainly getting there,” I acknowledged. Courtesy of Miss Glory’s list, I had a much clearer plan for what needed to be done right now and what could wait.
“She’s fashionably outfitted for phase one of her new beginning,” Dee announced.
“Entirely thanks to you. Have you considered becoming a personal shopper?”
“Not enough call for it here in Gibson Hollow, I’m afraid, but if I were still in New Orleans? Maybe.”
Elsie waved a kitchen towel. “Why don’t y’all go ahead and take everything up to Swayze’s room, then come down and keep me company while I cook.”
Dee saluted. “Yes’m.”
We left the pile of bags in my room to sort through later and returned to the kitchen.
“What can I do to help?” I asked, already moving toward the counter.
“Not a thing. Go on and put your feet up.”
There wasn’t a chance in hell I could be comfortable enough to sit still while she prepared a meal for me.
The very idea made my skin itch with discomfort.
I’d been raised better than that, and even if I hadn’t been, accepting too much generosity without reciprocation seemed like adding stones to an already precarious tower of debt.
“Mrs. Gibson, please let me help with something. It would make me feel better about imposing on you.”
“It’s Elsie,” she corrected, fixing me with those warm brown eyes that reminded me so much of my own grandmother.
“And nonsense. You’re not imposing a bit.
You’ve had yourself a terrible ordeal, and you’re our guest.” She paused, seeming to read the genuine distress on my face, and her expression softened further.
“But if you’d really like a task, you can chop those vegetables over there. How are your knife skills?”
I’d spent time with multiple chefs over my career—from farm-to-table evangelists in Portland to a Michelin-starred maestro in Copenhagen—and I’d picked up more than a few tricks along the way.
My julienne was respectable, my brunoise decent.
But this wasn’t the sort of place where I’d throw around that kind of information like social collateral, wielding culinary name-drops like credentials. “Adequate,” I said instead.
“Then wash on up and slice those onions, carrots, and mushrooms while I deal with this chicken. We’re gonna have us a nice little stir fry tonight. Dee, how ’bout you start the rice.”
“Happy to.” Dee moved to the rice cooker with the easy familiarity of someone who’d cooked in this kitchen countless times before. “Are we expecting any others tonight?”
“Oh, well, not planned.” Elsie pulled out a cutting board that looked like it had seen decades of use, its surface worn smooth and a little concave in the center.
“Everly’s eating over with her daddy tonight before she heads back to Nashville tomorrow.
But you know how it goes around here. Folks have a way of showing up around suppertime. ”
“I’ll double it then. Plenty we can do with leftover rice if we have some.”
We settled into a comfortable groove, the kitchen filling with the familiar sounds of preparation—the whisper of the knife through vegetables, the gentle hiss of rice meeting water, the quiet clatter of utensils against ceramic.
As I began to chop, starting with the onions because I’d learned to get the tear-inducing task out of the way first, Dee started humming.
The tune sounded vaguely familiar, tickling at the edges of my memory, but I didn’t recognize it until Elsie chimed in with the opening lyrics, her voice carrying the well-worn comfort of someone who’d sung this song a thousand times.
It was a Rosanna Harmon song. A sassy country number about a woman refusing to wait around for a man who couldn’t make up his mind.
Before my time by a good decade or more, but one I knew because Mama loved her music from back when.
So when they reached the chorus, muscle memory kicked in and I joined in without thinking, the words rising up from some dusty corner of my mind where I’d filed away all those childhood car trips when I’d been taught to harmonize.
Dee cheerfully bumped his hip to mine and took the lower harmony with the effortless precision of someone who understood music in his bones.
He had one hell of a voice, which was to be expected for someone who’d been a headliner for more than a decade, but the richness of it still surprised me.
Elsie was no slouch herself, adding her own hip twitch and foot stomp as she sashayed over to grab a massive skillet during the next verse.
I’d made it through the onion by the time we hit the chorus again, my eyes only a little watery, and when Dee tossed me a big wooden spoon and said “Take it away!” with theatrical flourish, I didn’t hesitate to sing the last verse into the spoon with feeling, leaning into the sass and attitude the song demanded.
Was it my best performance ever? Not even close.
After all the coughing and smoke yesterday, I was rocking a deeper alto than usual, my voice rougher around the edges, and the rasp wouldn’t suit everything.
But it was a moment of uninhibited fun that I desperately needed—a brief respite from the weight of everything that had gone wrong.
As the final notes faded, Dee grinned, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight. “Well now, you’ve got a fine voice. Real fine.”
“Thank you.” I took an exaggerated bow, almost whacking myself in the face with the spoon. “The Cooper’s Bend High School show choir and theater department would be so proud. Mrs. Henderson always said I had good projection.”
“A theater girlie!” Dee clutched his chest in delight and exchanged a meaningful glance with Elsie that I couldn’t quite interpret. “Darlin’ girl, we’ll have to recruit you for our next production. The Sasspatch Society is always looking for fresh blood.”
I had no idea whether I’d be around for their next production, whatever that might be.
The uncertainty of my situation loomed large, making any kind of future planning feel presumptuous.
Instead, I protested, “I have not been on a stage since I was eighteen.” There wasn’t much point.
Not when my brother was all but Broadway royalty these days.
I’d wanted to find my own thing to excel at, something that was mine alone.
“If you think that’ll stop him, you’re sorely mistaken.”
At the deep rumble just over my shoulder, I jolted with an undignified squeak, and the spoon mic went flying. Colter darted in, snatching it from the air before it could bean someone, his lips curved into an amused smirk that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes.
I pressed a hand to my racing heart. “When did you get here?”
“In time for the tail end of the performance. Nicely done.” His smirk softened into something warmer. “Mama would approve.”
My cheeks heated in mortification, though I didn’t get the sense he was making fun—more like he was genuinely pleased by what he’d witnessed. “Mama? Was she a fan of Rosanna Harmon, too?”
A curious blend of humor and sadness flickered across his face. “You could say that. Rosanna Harmon was my mother.”
My mouth fell open. “No.” The word came out somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Colter nodded, his expression settling into something resigned, like he’d had this conversation many times before.
“Yep. She traded Nashville and a promising career for family life here in Gibson Hollow. Now our baby sister, Hutton—you didn’t get a chance to meet her yet, I don’t think—is following in her footsteps.
She’s currently opening for Kyle Keenan on his tour. ”
I was impressed. Kyle Keenan was huge. “Wow. That’s a big deal. Like, a really big deal.”
“We’re excited for her. Proud as hell, too.” He shifted his focus beyond me to the ingredients on the counter, his gaze cataloging what remained to be done. “Haven’t started supper yet?”
Elsie pinned him with an indulgent look, the kind only a grandmother could give. “We have enough if you wanna stay. There’s always room for one more at this table.”
He patted his flat belly with an unrepentant grin. “I do admit to timing this visit in hopes of an invitation. But that’s just the bonus. I’m actually here with copies of the reports Swayze will need for her insurance claim.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” Relief washed through me—one less thing to track down and beg for.
“I called them earlier to notify them of what happened, so the ball is rolling, but they’ll definitely need that documentation.
” I went back to slicing mushrooms, focusing on keeping them uniform. “What caused the fire?”
“Electrical short, most likely. Unpermitted ‘upgrades’ because McCready is a cheapskate who cuts corners wherever he can.” Colter’s voice carried a thread of professional disgust. “He’ll probably have some fines and headaches with his own insurance, but you’re clear. No fault on your end whatsoever.”
“That’s something, at least,” I muttered, imagining all the creative ways karma might catch up with my former landlord. “Revenge by aspic sounds better and better.”
“We got you, boo,” Dee promised.
“Colter, if you’re staying, go set the table,” Elsie ordered, pointing with her spatula. “It’s looking like four of us tonight, so set accordingly.”
“Yes’m.”
Fifteen minutes later we were plating up fragrant, spicy stir-fry over fluffy rice and carrying it to the well-worn dining table.
The kitchen smelled incredible—ginger and garlic and that perfect caramelization that only comes from a screaming hot pan.
I ended up across from Colter, acutely aware of his presence in a way that was somehow both comfortable and a bit nerve-wracking.
“Thank you for dinner, Elsie. This looks absolutely delicious.”
“Group effort, truly.” She settled into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “After the hordes yesterday, the leftovers were pretty well wiped out, and I kinda like having something different after all the heavy casseroles and comfort food. Sometimes you just need a little spice.”
Colter added a liberal sprinkle of red pepper flakes to the sweet teriyaki, apparently subscribing to the ‘more is more’ philosophy.
“So, Swayze, what actually brought you to Gibson Hollow? I haven’t heard of anybody hiring an out-of-towner lately, and word gets around pretty quick in a place this size. ”
The brace was instinctive, and dread knotted my stomach. Did he know? Was he about to out me to his family as some kind of charlatan? But when he only continued to wait calmly for a reply, I eased a little.
Small town, I reminded myself, taking a steadying breath. I’d come from one very much like it. He wasn’t being nosy or invasive. This was just how folks were—genuinely curious, wanting to understand the new person in their midst.
“I’m self-employed. A graphic designer. So I can work from anywhere with a decent internet connection.”
He went brows up, clearly surprised. “And you chose here? After New Zealand?”
“It’s a different kind of beautiful, and I like small towns. I grew up in one. There’s something comforting about them—the pace, the way people know their neighbors.”
“Does the fire change your plans on that front?”
I lifted one shoulder in a shrug, trying to appear more casual than I felt. “I mean, it kind of has to. The house I rented is a pile of ashes. I have no idea what the rest of the market looks like here, but I know it’s limited since the flood damaged so many properties.”
Above and beyond the financial hit of the fire, I found the prospect of leaving already weirdly disappointing. What I’d seen so far of Gibson Hollow—the community, the landscape, the genuine warmth of the people I’d met so far—was just as charming as I’d imagined from the posts I’d seen online.
“What if you had somewhere else to stay?” he prompted, his tone carefully neutral.
“It would depend on the place. I’ve learned my lesson about renting anything more than overnight sight unseen.” The words came out more bitter than I’d intended.
Colter huffed a laugh, but it was sympathetic rather than mocking. “Fair enough. Can’t say I blame you there. I may have a line on a place for you.”
“Oh, really?” Dee’s voice sounded way too intrigued by that possibility, loaded with implications I couldn’t quite parse.
Colter didn’t spare his uncle a glance, keeping his attention focused on me. “I can take you over to look at it after dinner, if you’re interested. See if it would suit your needs.”
He seemed like a stand-up kinda guy who wouldn’t steer me toward another shithole, and maybe having a local—especially one who literally knew all the dangers to look for in a property—help me find a new place was the right move. Better than my previous strategy.
I could hardly make worse decisions than I already had.
“That’d be great. Thanks, I appreciate it.”