Chapter 5 - Norah
CHAPTER FIVE
Norah
The car smells like cinnamon and bananas. Wren baked three loaves last night because she couldn’t sleep.
I balance one of them on my lap while the bouquet I made rests in a big mason jar at my feet. The flowers are winter blooms—anemones, hellebores, sprigs of rosemary, and cedar. I wanted something that looked alive even in cold weather.
“Still sure about this?” Wren asks, her voice soft but steady as she turns onto the long road leading to the James property. The snow has already started to fall again, blurring the edges of the pines. “You don’t have to do this today.”
I look out the window. The road winds up through the ridge, past the frozen creek and the rows of old apple trees that used to belong to the James family orchard. “If I don’t do it now,” I say, “I’ll keep finding excuses.”
Wren nods, keeping one hand on the wheel. “Then we’ll do it. But if she’s not up for company, we won’t take it personally.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. Margaret James has never been unkind to me. When Dorian told me that she’d been diagnosed, I didn’t think. I just decided I’d stop by. Bring flowers. Maybe tea. Maybe comfort.
Now, with the house appearing through the trees, I realize how naive that was.
The James house used to look like an old farmhouse dressed up for Sunday church—white clapboard, sagging porch, ivy climbing up the chimney. Now it’s something else entirely.
The roof gleams slate gray against the snow, and the porch is wider, with new cedar railings. The siding’s been replaced, the windows framed in black trim.
It looks clean. Sharp. Not at all the place I used to sneak into on warm summer nights with Dorian.
Wren whistles under her breath. “Well, look at that. Someone’s been busy.”
“Yeah.” My voice catches. “Dorian must’ve redone everything.”
She parks near the edge of the drive. For a second, all I can do is stare at the front door. The wreath hanging there is simple. Green pine with a single red bow.
Wren glances over at me. “You want me to come up with you?”
I shake my head. “No. You wait here. I’ll just drop this off.”
She reaches over, resting her hand on my arm. “You’re doing something kind, Norah.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Then I grab the bouquet and the small loaf of banana bread wrapped in wax paper. My boots crunch against the snow as I walk up the path.
Everything’s too neat. The porch that used to creak under my feet feels solid now. The wind carries the faint scent of cedar—Dorian’s scent, but sharper, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I knock.
It takes a while before the door opens. Margaret stands there, framed in the warm light of the foyer.
She looks smaller than I remember, her gray hair pinned back neatly, a thick cardigan over her shoulders. She’s not wearing her glasses, but her eyes seem sharp, clear, and still full of fire.
“Norah,” she says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
I lift the bouquet slightly. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. I wanted to bring these.”
Her expression flickers. Not gratitude. Something closer to discomfort. “That’s kind of you, dear, but you didn’t need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble.” I try to smile, to make this easy. “They’re from the shop. Wren’s in the car. She baked this morning and thought you might like some.”
Her gaze shifts past me toward the driveway, then back. “I see. Well.” She steps aside. “You’d better come in before you freeze.”
I step inside. The house smells like lemon polish and wood smoke. The floors gleam, and the furniture’s new. Modern lines and soft gray fabrics, not the old floral couch I remember.
Everything’s changed except for the piano in the corner and the framed photographs above it. One catches my eye: Dorian at a construction site, sunlight in his hair, smiling in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“Everything looks beautiful,” I say quietly.
“Dorian insisted,” she replies, crossing her arms. “After the storm damage three years ago, he said it was time. I let him have his way.”
I set the bouquet on the entry table. “You raised a good man.”
For a second, I think I see her soften. But then her jaw tightens. “Yes, well. Good men don’t always make good decisions.”
Before I can answer, a voice comes from the hallway. “Mom? Who’s at the door?”
Dorian appears, sleeves rolled up, a pencil tucked behind his ear. His jaw’s covered in that rough stubble that used to scrape my neck when he kissed me.
He stops short when he sees me. The silence stretches.
“Norah?” he says finally. “What are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but Margaret cuts in. “She brought flowers. Thought she’d check in on me.”
Something in her tone makes me shrink a little. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t see.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” I manage. “Wren and I were out running deliveries, and—”
“Deliveries,” Margaret repeats, eyes narrowing slightly. “And now the whole town will know I’m unwell, won’t they? I don’t want pity.”
The words hit like ice water. “That’s not… No one needs to know anything. I just—”
“Dorian,” she interrupts, her voice sharp. “Did you tell her?”
He looks between us, clearly caught. “I might’ve mentioned—”
“Mentioned?” she snaps. “You told her. Wonderful. Why not post it on the Fox Hollow bulletin board while you’re at it?”
“Mom—” he starts, but she turns away, pacing toward the piano. Her hands tremble just slightly as she adjusts one of the picture frames.
“I don’t need sympathy,” she says. “And I don’t need visitors showing up out of pity.”
My cheeks heat, embarrassment clawing up my throat. “I wasn’t—”
“Norah,” Dorian says quietly, stepping forward. “Maybe we should—”
“No,” I say, forcing a breath. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have come without calling.”
“Probably not,” Margaret mutters.
That stings more than I want it to. I back toward the door, fumbling with my gloves. “I’ll let you rest.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” she says, though it sounds more like formality than gratitude.
Dorian’s still watching me. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, but it’s low, almost like he’s trying not to make it worse.
I nod, unable to trust my voice. The air feels too tight in here, full of old ghosts and new walls. I push open the door and step out into the cold.
Wren’s waiting, engine idling. When she sees my face, she doesn’t ask questions. Just reaches over and hands me a napkin. “Tea at the café?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Please.”
The ride back down the hill feels longer than before. The snow’s heavier now, the windshield wipers sweeping in a steady rhythm.
Wren hums softly under her breath, a tune I recognize from the café playlist. Something easy, meant to fill the silence without demanding attention.
She parks behind the shop and kills the engine. “Come on,” she says. “Warmth and sugar fix most things.”
Inside, the café smells like vanilla and espresso. She sets a kettle on, pulls out two mugs, and slices the banana bread. The sound of the knife against the crust drowns her humming.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says after a while. “But you should eat.”
I take a bite. It’s sweet, soft, comforting in a way I don’t deserve right now. “I shouldn’t have gone,” I say finally. “It wasn’t my place.”
“You were being kind.”
“She didn’t see it that way.”
“Maybe not today,” Wren says. “Illness makes people protective of their privacy. Of their pride. Doesn’t mean you did wrong.”
I stare into my mug. The tea’s steaming, the scent of honey rising up. “She looked so angry. Like I exposed something she wanted hidden.”
“Maybe you reminded her of a time when things were simpler. Before everything changed.” Wren sits across from me, chin propped on her hand. “You’ve got that effect on people.”
I huff out a forced laugh. “I think I’ve got the opposite effect.”
“Maybe.” She smiles softly. “But you showed up with flowers and bread in a snowstorm. That counts for something.”
I look out the window. The snow outside falls heavier now, blanketing Main Street in quiet white. The lights from the shop windows glow against it, soft and warm.
I think about Dorian’s face when he saw me, the flicker of surprise, the way his voice softened for half a breath before his mother’s tone cut through.
“It’s my fault,” I say quietly. “For barging in. For assuming.”
“Or maybe it’s his fault,” Wren counters gently. “For not setting the boundary you didn’t know existed.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe he should’ve warned me. Or maybe I wanted an excuse to see him.
By the time I finish my tea, the warmth has seeped back into my hands. Wren wraps the remaining banana bread and slides it across the table. “Take this to the shop. You’ll need something to keep you company.”
“What about you? How’s the nausea, babe?”
“Simon has me on some meds that are really helping. With Mom meeting with her lawyer this week, it’ll be better for me to be in charge of my faculties.”
She’s referring to the fact that her mother is in the process of filing for divorce from her abusive husband. Wren and her dad have never gotten along.
I smile faintly. “Please call me if you need anything. I’ll be right over.”
“I’m okay, Norah. Go work. Make some money. Make sure you eat. I know it’s going to be hard to accept, but you did your part. I don’t know anyone who would have gone to check on the ex’s parent.”
“Thanks.”
She squeezes my hand. “You did fine. The world doesn’t break just because one person takes something the wrong way.”
I nod, though I don’t quite believe it. When I step back into the cold, the air bites at my cheeks, but it feels cleaner somehow. The bouquet’s gone, the scent of rosemary and cedar still clinging to my gloves.
By the time I reach my shop, the snow has muffled everything, turning the whole street into a watercolor of white and gray.