Chapter 26LARK #2
His tone is light, but there’s something curled beneath it. His eyes flick past me—to Dawn, still leaning beside the counter. I catch it in my periphery—the way her shoulders go still, the way her face tightens around the edges. There’s a shift in her posture, just enough to say: she’s afraid.
Dawn. Afraid.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that before.
I step forward. “Well, a lot of folks in Summit Springs are glad to see it too.”
He hums low in his throat, gaze steady. “Seems like it got opened back up awful quick. Considering.”
I smile wider, the kind that dares him to keep pushing. “Community came together. Lucky, I guess.”
We lock eyes, and I don’t look away.
His stare sharpens, like he’s trying to peel something off me with his eyes, but I don’t flinch. Eventually, he shifts his gaze to the menu and clears his throat.
“I’ll have the breakfast skillet,” he says.
“Anything else?”
He shakes his head once. “Breakfast skillet’s fine.”
I nod, punch it in, keep my face calm even though I can feel my knuckles tighten against the counter.
He slips a bill into the jar—generous, yet again—and it makes my stomach churn, like a hand on your shoulder that lingers too long.
I want to reach in, ball it up, and throw it at the back of his head as he walks away.
He doesn’t move yet, though. Just taps the counter with his palm like he owns it, then gestures past my shoulder, toward the window behind me.
“That building across the street,” he says. “Been empty a while.”
I don’t look. I don’t need to. I know which one he means—old brick facade, cracked paint along the trim, windows still covered with butcher paper from whoever tried and failed before.
It’s got a second-story balcony that sags slightly, a warped awning, a side alley that floods when it rains.
It’s nothing special. But it’s right across from the Bluebell.
“And?”
He smiles. It’s polite, almost kind. Which makes it worse. “Bought it last week. Figured it was time it got used.”
My stomach tightens.
“I’m bringing in a franchise,” he says. “Magnolia & Main. You’ve heard of it, right?”
I blink.
He says it like it’s just another business.
But Magnolia & Main isn’t just a bakery.
It’s an empire wrapped in velvet ribbon and lavender frosting.
It’s been on every magazine cover, every influencer’s vlog, every top ten write-up of “places you have to try before you die.” Their croissants are practically copyrighted.
People take road trips just to get a picture under their neon signs.
I stare at him.
This isn’t an investment. It’s a strategy. He couldn’t take the Bluebell from me, so now he’ll try to drown it—siphon off every tourist dollar, every brunch reservation, every person who wants to say they’ve been somewhere that’s been on TV.
He’s not trying to build something.
He’s trying to bleed me dry.
Wendell leans in slightly, his voice adopting a casual drawl that doesn’t quite match the sharpness in his eyes. “You know, Magnolia & Main got a nice boost a couple years back when they were featured on Martha Stewart’s show. Been booming ever since.”
I keep my expression neutral.
He gestures toward the window, indicating the building across the street. “Bringing them here could do wonders for Summit Springs. More tourists, more foot traffic. It’s the kind of growth this town needs.”
I fold my arms, leveling my gaze at him. “Growth for who, exactly?”
He offers a placating smile. “For everyone. A rising tide lifts all ships, right?”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Let’s not pretend this is about the community. You couldn’t buy the Bluebell, so now you’re trying to box me in.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Just a businessman seizing an opportunity.”
“We’ll see how that works out for you.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then tips his hat. “Good luck, Lark.”
As Wendell saunters to his usual booth, a few regulars intercept him along the way.
Hands clap his back, voices murmur greetings, heads nod in respect.
The town’s golden boy, receiving his due adulation.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, instead focusing on the countertop, tracing the grain of the wood with my fingertip.
The Bluebell has stood the test of time, weathered storms both literal and figurative.
Its walls have absorbed decades of laughter, tears, whispered secrets, and clinking coffee cups.
There’s a legacy here, one that can’t be overshadowed by a flashy newcomer, no matter how many magazine features it boasts.
I glance around the diner, taking in the familiar faces. These are the people who have kept the Bluebell alive, their loyalty woven into the very fabric of this place. They’ve been here long before Magnolia & Main became a household name, and I have faith they’ll stay for a while yet.
Dawn leans a hip against the counter, folding her arms as she eyes the buzz of the room. “Tate’s always been shady. Even if he does end up building that bakery, you know we’ve all got your back.”
I turn toward her, keeping my tone even. “I know. I’m lucky.” My eyes meet hers, and I let the silence stretch for a beat longer than usual. “Really lucky to have everyone’s loyalty.”
She smiles, but there’s something stiff about it. Like she can’t quite get it to stick.
“Josie,” I call, my voice steady. She’s wiping down a booth with one hand and waving to a table with the other. “You good to take the front for a bit? I’ve got stuff to take care of in the office.”
She gives me a quick nod, already moving. “Yeah, I got it.”
I disappear into the back, the door swinging shut behind me. The office is stuffy, sun creeping through the blinds in narrow, dusty strips. I stand there for a moment, running my hands over my face, pressing my palms into my eyes until all I see are starbursts of color.
I’m so tired of pretending I’m okay with whatever happens.
Tired of being the girl who swallows her words and smiles like she isn’t angry, like she isn’t scared.
When Boone left, I didn’t ask him to stay.
I told myself it was about being strong, about not making him feel guilty or feeling obligated to stay.
I wanted him to be happy. I just…wanted that happiness to include me, somehow, without me having to say the words.
But maybe silence didn’t feel like strength to him. Maybe it felt like permission.
I lower my hands, breathing in through my nose. Wendell Tate doesn’t get to take the Bluebell from me just because I’ve never really stood up to him. I’m not that girl anymore.
Alice used to say, “A voice is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Don’t wait for the world to hand you permission to speak.”
She was right. I won’t wait anymore.
*******
I park in the gravel drive beside the main house, the Montana sun sinking low behind the indigo mountains, turning the whole sky apricot.
Boone’s truck is parked out front and the bike he got Hudson is tipped over in the grass, one handlebar caught in the sprinkler hose like he bailed mid-flight. It makes me smile.
We haven’t said it out loud, but we’ve basically moved in.
Or I have. My things are scattered in drawers I didn’t fill on purpose.
My toothbrush is next to his. There’s half-used bottles of my shampoo and conditioner in the shower that I didn’t buy.
Every time I bring up heading back to my place, Boone barely looks up before saying something like, “You mean just to grab more stuff, right?” Once, I found him folding my laundry—badly—and when I raised an eyebrow, he just shrugged and said, “Didn’t want you to run out of clean clothes. Figured that’d be a reason to leave.”
It’s not subtle, what he’s doing. He wants me here. Wants us here.
But I can’t pretend I don’t love waking up in his bed, in his T-shirts, with his arm around my waist and his breath on my neck.
I love the way he kisses me good morning like he’s waited all night to do it.
I love the way he listens to me when I talk all night, like what I say matters, like it stays with him.
Loving him is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
Loving Boone Wilding was never careful. It was untamed and inevitable, like stepping into a river and knowing the current might take you under.
But some loves don’t let you wade in slow.
Some loves grab you by the hands and pull.
And maybe I spent too many years fighting the tide.
Maybe I was always meant to be carried home
They’re in the yard when I pull up—Boone in cutoff sleeves, Hudson’s glove already on, a ball soaring between them like it has a mind of its own.
The sky’s turned that soft, glowing kind of blue it only seems to be in June, the breeze tugging at the edges of Boone’s T-shirt and lifting Hudson’s hair off his forehead.
Baseball season started a few weeks ago, and Hudson’s already had two games.
He plays shortstop like he was born to do it—quick hands, steady nerves, eyes sharp.
Every evening after dinner, they’re out here.
Boone calls it “getting his arm warm,” but I think he just likes the ritual of it.
Hudson does too. He stands taller now, throws harder. Laughs more.
This is what I used to imagine, back when I still believed things might go the way I always hoped they will.
Before I knew what it meant to sit alone at parent-teacher conferences, to fill in the “father” line on school forms with a blank space.
I didn’t know how much it would matter—this moment, right here.
Boone’s voice calling across the yard. The showing up.
The being there. The knowing someone’s always going to throw the ball back.
I park and sit for a second, watching them. Boone tosses the ball, and Hudson catches it clean, his grin wide enough to be seen from here. Boone says something I can’t hear, and Hudson doubles over laughing.