Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jude
The cedar smells sharp and clean as I run the planer along the edge, curls of pale wood spilling onto the tarp beneath my boots.
Snow flurries drift through the open garage door, melting the second they touch the concrete, but I barely feel the cold. My body is warm from work. My mind is busy in the best possible way.
This stall matters.
Not just because Norah deserves something sturdy and beautiful for the market. Not just because she has already lost enough to things falling apart when they should have held.
It matters because this is something we can give her that stays upright. Something that does its job without fuss or apology.
Ryker adjusts the sawhorses while I measure the next plank, pencil tucked behind my ear. We’re not talking much, but we’re not quiet either.
There’s the language of tools and nods, of reaching without asking because we already know what the other needs.
“Angled legs are the right call,” Ryker says, tightening a clamp. “Ground’s going to be soft with this weather.”
“Already compensated,” I tell him. “Quarter-inch wider at the base. Weight distribution stays even even if the snow piles up.”
He hums in approval. “You think about everything.”
I shrug, lining up the next cut. “Someone has to.”
We lay the slats out on the floor, arranging them like a puzzle. Cedar shelves, sanded smooth enough not to snag fabric or skin. A raised lip at the back so buckets can’t slide. Cross bracing underneath for stability.
I’ve already routed shallow grooves for drainage, because flowers need to breathe even in winter.
“She’s going to love this,” Ryker says.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
He studies me for a second, then casually asks, “You talk to Maisie today?”
“No,” I say. “But I called Amber last night. She let me talk to her.”
Ryker straightens, eyebrows lifting. “You should have told me.”
I look up, and the expression on his face hits me right in the chest. “We got distracted, remember?”
“I remember, Jude.”
He has the same look he had when I walked into the bedroom last night and found him on his knees eating Norah out.
Dorian was smirking, collapsed on the bed, cock on his stomach, probably waiting for his turn.
Yeah, we got distracted pretty easily.
“How was she?” he asks, bringing me back to the present.
I lean against the workbench, exhaling. “She was curled up on the couch. Amber said she’s been sleeping better. Reading again. She loves spending time with Rufus and the rest of Stella’s pets.”
“What’s she reading?”
“Harry Potter,” I say, a smile pulling at my mouth despite myself. “Book three. She told me she likes Lupin because he’s nice even when things are hard.”
Ryker’s gaze softens. “So she’s happy?”
I consider the question carefully. “Happy-ish,” I say. “She laughed. That counts for something.”
“It counts for a lot,” he says.
I nod. “Amber said they might come up for the spring festival if the roads cooperate.”
Ryker claps a hand on my shoulder. “That’s good. And how’s Amber?”
I explain that she seems to be coping and that no matter how hard I took them leaving, she is, in fact, doing better with Maisie there with her.
“Has she talked to Luke again?”
I shake my head. “Not that she’s mentioned. All she talks about is Peppa. That’s one of Stella’s cats. And I know she’s working at a diner there, so she’s doing her best. I’m going to trust that for now.”
We work in silence after that, the kind that lets thoughts settle without crowding. When the stall is finally assembled in pieces, every joint tight, every surface sealed against moisture, I step back and take it in.
It looks solid. Like it belongs outside with flowers and people moving past it with cups of cider in their hands.
We load it into the truck, securing everything with care. Snow is coming down harder now.
As we drive toward the square, I watch the familiar buildings pass by, the bakery with its fogged windows, the café where Wren’s mom sometimes waves even if she’s in the middle of a rush.
Mayor Brighton spots us immediately.
He’s bundled in a thick coat, scarf wrapped twice around his neck, clipboard under one arm. He steps closer, boots crunching on snow, eyes lighting up when he sees the stall.
“Well,” he says. “This is something.”
“We wanted to show you the progress,” Ryker explains. “About the demolition schedule.”
Brighton nods. “I’ll admit, I was a little convinced you were running behind.”
I open the tailgate, lowering the ramp so he can see the design. “We adjusted the plan. Temporary structures for the market. Keeps foot traffic up while the hall is closed.”
He circles the stall, fingers brushing the cedar. “This is smart.”
“It lets vendors stay visible,” I add. “And it keeps the square active.”
Brighton smiles, genuinely pleased. “You should run this by Dorian and get it started as soon as possible.”
“We will,” Ryker says.
Brighton nods once more, satisfied, and heads off to harass someone else about permits.
Snowflakes drift down thicker now, clinging to my lashes when I tilt my head back. I breathe in cold air and turn.
That’s when I see her.
Norah is stepping out of her truck, bundled in a skirt that moves gently, an oversized coat wrapped around her. Wren is beside her, long dress and boots, belly round and proud.
Norah’s laughing at something Wren says.
It hits me hard.
She’s exactly what Christmas should feel like.
Warm. Bright. Full of something worth gathering around.
I smile before I can stop myself, heart opening wide and unapologetic. For the first time in a long while, I’m not bracing for loss.
I’m standing in the middle of something good, watching it arrive, knowing I helped build the place where it can stand.
And that feels like enough.
She smiles when she sees us, and something inside my chest opens without permission.
I step toward her before I can overthink it, hands cold from wood and metal, heart warm enough to make up the difference.
I kiss her. Not a quick peck meant for politeness, but a real kiss, one that says I’m here and I’m glad you are, too.
She melts into it with a little sound that’s just for me, fingers brushing my wrist as if to make sure I’m real.
“Hey,” I murmur when I pull back.
“Hey,” she says, eyes bright.
I turn, arm still at her back, and greet Beau with a nod. “Morning.”
He grins, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “Looks good, man.”
I bend and kiss Wren’s cheek. “You look incredible.”
She laughs. “Thank you.”
Ryker steps in next, crowding close in that way he does when he’s feeling settled. He kisses Norah without asking, hand firm at her waist, and she smiles against his mouth before turning back to the stall, eyes wide.
“Is this for me?” she asks, running her fingers along the cedar shelf.
“For you,” Ryker says. “We’re just doing final touches.”
She breathes out, a sound that feels like gratitude and wonder mixed together, and I watch her take it all in.
The angled legs. The chalkboard sign waiting for her handwriting. The buckets already lined up, filled with water and a hint of pine.
Dorian approaches then, scarf wrapped neatly at his throat, the Burberry pattern unmistakable even under falling snow.
He greets Norah with a kiss to her temple and then steps seamlessly into the work, helping up with the last details.
The winter market unfolds around us as if it has been waiting for this cue.
Fallon’s B&B stall is already up, a rack of cured meats hanging proudly, the scent of smoke and salt cutting through the cold.
Strings of sausages sway slightly when people pass, deep reds and browns against butcher paper and twine.
He catches my eye and lifts a hand in greeting, knife flashing as he slices samples.
Next to him, spices are everywhere. Mounds of cinnamon and cardamom piled in shallow bowls, star anise arranged like small constellations, crushed peppercorns glinting dark and sharp.
The air is layered with it all, warmth and bite and sweetness mingling until breathing feels like a comfort.
Norah moves between us as we work, sometimes stepping back to admire the stall, sometimes leaning in to ask a question, sometimes just standing there with her hands tucked into the sleeves of Dorian’s coat.
Each time she shifts, one of us adjusts instinctively to make space, to keep her centered without boxing her in. It feels like a quiet agreement made without words.
Ruth appears then, bundled in her familiar wool coat, knit hat pulled low, eyes sharp even as she smiles. She peers at the stall, then at Norah, brows lifting.
“Well,” she says. “There you are. We have all been so worried about you. No one has seen you in days. You look… um… healthy. You have a glow about you now.”
Norah opens her mouth, but I answer first, voice calm and protective. “She does.”
Ruth studies me for a beat, then nods, satisfied. She reaches for a bouquet of winter greens, fingers testing the stems. “These will do.”
Norah beams, hands moving to wrap the flowers with care, her smile softening when Ruth presses payment into her palm.
Wren excuses herself then, waddling toward her mother’s café stall with a wave. Beau follows, already laughing at something she says.
The square hums with voices and movement, snow falling thicker now, lights strung overhead glowing warm against the gray sky.
It’s the three of us at the booth. Dorian, Ryker, and me.
Norah stands between us, close enough that I can feel the heat of her even through layers. When someone approaches, one of us steps forward, the others staying back, hands brushing her shoulders or her back in passing.
It’s not possession. It’s presence.
After a while, when the stall is stocked and the first rush has ebbed, I suggest we take a walk.
“Leave the booth?” Norah asks, surprised.
“For a few minutes,” I say. “We deserve to see the market, too. And you’ve been indoors for a whole week. You need this.”
She looks at Ryker, then Dorian, then nods. “Okay.”
We move through the market together, Norah between us, her arm slipping through mine while Ryker walks close on her other side and Dorian just ahead, glancing back to make sure we are all there.
People notice. Heads turn. Smiles follow. But no one looks shocked. No one whispers. It feels like a small miracle.
Mick waves us over, already pouring spiced eggnog into thick mugs, steam rising fragrant and sweet. He hands one to Norah first.
“On the house,” he says. “You’ve been missed.”
She laughs, cheeks pink, and takes a sip, eyes closing briefly in pleasure. “This is perfect.”
I take my mug, the warmth seeping into my hands, and watch her laugh with Dorian, watch Ryker lean in to say something that makes her grin wider.
The reassurance hits me then, clear and solid. She’s letting people see her with us. She’s not hiding. She’s choosing this in the open.
Snow continues to fall, music drifts from somewhere near the square, and for a moment, everything aligns. Work. Town. People. Her.
It makes sense.
It all makes sense.