Chapter 4 Wren
Wren
The back hatch of my Audi beeps open, and a bag of tortilla chips makes a slow-motion tumble to the ground.
“Perfect.” Crouching to grab it, I brush off a thin film of driveway dust. People who say the city is dirty have clearly never experienced country life.
I’ve unloaded half the groceries when the rumble of a familiar truck engine growls from the road. Mom and Will must be here to drop off Atticus.
“Mom! Guess what?” he calls, sprinting across the gravel a minute later.
“What?” I ask, standing just in time to catch him in a half hug.
“Grandpa let me drive his lawn tractor. And Grandma made waffles for dinner. Waffles.”
“Steer,” my stepdad, Will, corrects him. “I let him steer it, not drive it. Big difference, bud, but we’ll get there.”
“You lucky duck.” I brush a curl from his forehead. “You gonna help me put all this away?”
He wrinkles his nose. I let it slide this once. Normally we’re a team, but this is a special circumstance—and I need to figure out where everything’s going to go first, otherwise I’ll find a box of cereal under the stove and a bottle of ketchup in the freezer.
My mother’s already making her way toward me, arms open, warm and smiling. Pretty sure she hasn’t stopped smiling since the moving truck arrived this morning. She took the day off work specifically to help take Atticus off my hands while I handled the movers.
“Hi, sweetheart.” She’s beaming, dragging in a literal breath of fresh air. “Wow, look at this place.”
“Come on in,” I say, gesturing her and Will inside as I grab another couple of bags. “It’s still a disaster. And we’ll be eating Tony’s frozen pizza for the next three days, but it’s starting to look more like home than some old farmhouse.”
Inside, my mom makes a beeline for the kitchen, already unpacking without asking. It’s her love language—acts of service disguised as mild bossiness. My back is on fire and I can barely keep my eyes open, so I accept her help with a tremendous amount of quiet appreciation.
“Atticus, show Grandpa your new room,” she calls as she tears open a bag of Gala apples and dumps them into a ceramic bowl on the counter.
“I was going to give you the official tour,” I say, handing her a box of pantry items. “But Atticus probably knows the property better than I do. I haven’t even ventured to the outbuildings yet.”
The movers finished early this afternoon, and I spent a few hours unpacking clothes and other essentials before running to the lone grocery store in town.
“It’s all he’s been talking about all day,” Mom says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited about anything in his life. Did he tell you he wants a pony?”
I chuckle. “One of the first things he said.”
She tilts her head to the side, eyes crinkling and warm. “You know, one of our neighbors down the road has a little Shetland. Got it for their grandkids years ago, but the grandkids grew up, got too busy for pony rides. It’d be perfect for Atticus. Want me to ask if they’d sell it to you?”
“Sure.” I don’t know the first thing about pony ownership, but how hard can it be? I’ve got a barn and a corral and some fenced land. I’ll figure out the rest. Besides, Atticus needs some chores. Real chores. Not just unloading the dishwasher.
Upstairs, the sound of Will and Atticus’s footsteps make the place creak and moan. Mom stocks my fridge, making sure all the labels face out the way she always does. The house feels warmer with them here. The kind of warmth that has nothing to do with the thermostat.
“I’m setting up my office in that little room off the front hallway,” I tell her as we unload the last of the groceries. “The one with the bow window.”
“Oh, Wren, I love that one. You’ll be able to see when someone’s coming up the drive.”
“Exactly. I can be nosy and productive at the same time.”
She grins. “Just like Grandma Betty used to. That’s where you get that from, you know.”
We move from room to room, and I show her everything—the unfinished sunroom off the kitchen that I’m dreaming of turning into a reading nook, the barn I haven’t dared venture into yet, the spot in the backyard where I want to plant lavender and tomatoes and zucchini—and probably kill them all, though I’m hell-bent on proving Reese wrong about my black thumb.
“It’s weird being back,” I admit as we circle back to the kitchen.
“Everything looks familiar but different at the same time. And the grocery store was filled with strangers. The hardware store too. I saw my old English teacher, Mrs. Crest, on the square and waved. She waved back, but I could tell she didn’t recognize me.
Gosh, she was the whole reason I got into writing in the first place. ”
“You’ve been here one day,” Mom says, head cocked in sympathy. “And people haven’t forgotten you.”
I raise a brow. “I wouldn’t blame them if they did. I’ve been gone almost twenty years.”
Despite coming home to visit on a regular basis, it’s not the same as calling this place home again. There was never an attachment to it, never a second thought, never a single care about what had and hadn’t changed over the years because it never affected me.
Grabbing the wrapped ground beef out of the next bag, I think about the handsome yet grumpy guy from the grocery store today.
I felt his gaze land heavy on me before I approached the meat counter, but once I got there, he was stoic, uninterested, and unbothered.
I might as well have been invisible—until I requested grass-fed hamburger.
Hunter—I’m pretty sure that’s what the butcher called him, though my mind was going fifty different directions and firing on all cylinders, so I could be wrong.
He looks like a Hunter, though—all stoic and rugged.
“Call Natalie Dinsmore,” she says, snapping her fingers like she’s just remembered. “You two were joined at the hip in high school. She’s still around—runs that little boutique on the square. She’d love to hear from you.”
“I haven’t talked to Natalie in over fifteen years.” Last time I saw her was at a house party some summer right after college. We had a blast, just like old times, and exchanged numbers, but neither one of us followed up. Alcohol-and-nostalgia-fueled promises tend to play out like that.
“Which means you’ll have lots to catch up on.” She nudges my shoulder.
I lean against the counter. For the last five years, I’ve only been forty minutes away, but it might as well have been across the country some days.
No one besides family ventured my way too often.
If they did, they were shopping or seeing a concert or show.
And other than visiting my parents, I had no other reason to come back to Colton Valley.
“We’ve missed having you close by,” she says softly.
I exhale, smiling, but a little guilt creeps in. I let life get too busy. Too loud. I forgot how grounding this place could be. How easy it is to breathe when people know you. And how good it feels to be home.
Really, truly home.
“Thanks for helping with Atti today,” I say as she wipes her hands.
Will calls from the foyer that they need to head out.
She cups my face, her eyes full of hope and sanguinity. “We’re just glad you’re finally home—where you belong. I always had a feeling you’d come back.”
Later, when my son is shower-fresh and tucked into his new bed, I sit cross-legged in the middle of my office, surrounded by unopened boxes and tangled cords.
The faint scent of old books and pine cleaner fills the air.
There’s a soft whoosh that glides through the opened window every time the wind rustles through the trees.
The chirping crickets combined with the faint croaks of frogs by the river play like background music.
Moonlight fills in the shadows around me, casting soft silver-gold beams across the room.
I’ve placed my desk directly in front of the window.
It’s a simple writer’s desk. One with whitewashed wood, a sage green inlay, and a drawer that sticks—a graduation gift from my grandfather, who was an avid woodsmith in his day.
On top sits my trusty MacBook, a little milk glass desk lamp, an Iowa State coffee mug filled with pens in every color, and a framed photo of Atticus at age two at the state fair, grinning like a champion after winning a stuffed cow at the midway.
Outside, the trees sway lazily, and the gravel drive is empty.
But my thoughts aren’t.
I keep seeing him—the man at the meat counter earlier today.
Defined jaw.
Rough hands.
Sweeping broad shoulders.
Close-shaved beard.
Hair the color of dark chocolate.
The tiniest hint of salt-and-pepper at his temples.
Gorgeous bright blue eyes that played off his suntanned complexion.
I couldn’t stop staring no matter how hard I tried . . . and believe me, I tried.
There was something about the way he stood.
Like he didn’t want to be noticed but knew he would be.
And the way he didn’t flirt back with the butcher?
She was cute and funny—and the way her face lit when she was practically throwing herself at him was painfully obvious.
But Hunter couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing. If anything, it seemed to annoy him.
He seemed guarded.
Private.
Aloof yet silently observant at the same time.
Which is why it caught me by surprise when he called me out on the grass-fed beef thing. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to flirt, be helpful, or if he was just being a jerk. It all happened so fast and then it was over. By the time I got checked out and to the car, he was long gone.
I imagine I’ll see him around town again.
And I hope I do.
Before I realize it, my pen is between my teeth. My fingers twitch for something—anything—to capture the mood wrapping itself around me like smoke. It’s the kind of moment most writers dream of—an idea burning inside you so hot and fast you have to seize it immediately or it’ll be gone forever.
I reach for the little sunflower-covered notebook I bought a year ago and haven’t touched since. My grandma Betty always used to call me her “little sunflower.” She said sunflowers are resilient and stubborn, they bloom under harsh conditions, and they’re always reaching for the sun.
The pages are blank, but not for much longer.
Turns out I didn’t need sunflowers to inspire me . . . I needed him.
I flip to the first page, draw a breath, and begin to write.
Hunter—
I wasn’t going to write you.
I don’t even know you.
But you’ve been haunting my thoughts for hours now, like a song stuck in my head, and I’m finding myself deeply intrigued with the idea of you.
The way you stood there with your back straight, jaw tight, pretending not to notice me standing behind you, yet somehow I felt the intensity of your attention anyway . . . I don’t think I’ve ever felt more seen in complete silence.
Yet we’re complete strangers, and perhaps we always will be.
You’re not exactly warm and friendly. But if this town is my blank page, maybe you’re the margin. You intrigue me.
And you look like a story that demands to be told.
There’s something about you that makes me want to fill in all the blanks.
Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t matter because you’re never going to read this. All that matters is I’m writing again because of you. Maybe it’s not a novel, but it’s a start.
And honestly, I think I’m going to make a book out of you.
—Wren