Chapter 6
Jonas always loved the quiet mornings before anyone else was up in town. Well before the world filled with voices, and he had to struggle with words that didn’t come easily.
Today felt different, though. He walked toward the half-finished church hall with Maeve at his side, and the silence wasn’t heavy or lonely. It was just…shared.
Maeve had a small basket of tools over her arm. He’d set them aside for her earlier. Her footsteps were light, but he spotted the shadows under her eyes. Apparently she hadn’t slept much. Neither had he.
He knew the people in town had started talking. The gossip clung to them both. But neither of them mentioned it as they walked.
Maeve had shown up and was walking right there next to him. That mattered to him. More than he cared to admit.
The sun stretched across the valley, lighting up the dew on the grass. Pine sap drifted on the breeze. Jonas breathed it in, trying to steady himself. He always enjoyed the scent and how it reminded him of his childhood.
Maeve glanced his way. “It’s beautiful out here.”
He nodded. “Y-ya. It is.”
She smiled, and he felt some awful knot inside him loosening.
Lately, his stutter didn’t seem to faze her anymore.
She waited for him. She didn’t get impatient or look away, not even when he paused for too long.
That made it easier to talk. Like stepping onto a bridge he didn’t have to worry about collapsing.
When they got to the church hall, Maeve stopped at the door, taking in the tall frame against the sky. The new wood glowed pale and smooth. Jonas remembered every beam, every joint. He’d spent months on this, as it was his biggest project. The one that meant the most to him.
Maeve stepped in and ran her fingers over the wall.
“It feels alive,” she said, almost to herself.
“Alive?” Jonas blinked.
“Ya, like it’s waiting for something. People. Music. A purpose,” she nodded.
He swallowed, thinking it over. He’d never looked at it that way before, but she was right. Buildings weren’t just wood and nails. They held lives.
“We can s-start with the w-window frames. If you want,” he cleared his throat.
“Show me,” Maeve set down her basket
He picked up two planks and the hand plane, showing her how to work it slowly, making thin curls of wood. Maeve watched, serious and focused. When he handed her the tool, her fingers touched his. They felt light, steady and warm.
She tried, but fumbled a little. Then she found her rhythm. Jonas guided her when she needed it, then let her go on her own.
The sound of the plane filled the hall. It was soft, steady, almost like music, and Maeve began humming as she worked.
A curl of wood landed in her hair, and Maeve laughed. The sound sent warmth through Jonas. He hadn’t realized how much he missed having laughter in his home, or how badly he wanted it to stay.
“You’re a good teacher,” she said, flicking the wood away.
“You’re a g-good learner,” he shook his head
She smiled, and his ears went hot. Jonas wasn’t used to compliments, and Maeve always seemed to have praise for him.
They kept working, moving in sync. Passing tools without speaking, or stepping around each other like they’d done this a hundred times. Maeve hummed as she worked. It was simple tunes, gentle, and Jonas decided they were meant just for him.
She wasn’t singing like the night she stepped in front of the town. No, this was different, softer, almost like a secret. It made his chest ache in the best way.
He lost track of time until Maeve stretched with a satisfied sigh.
“I think I’m getting it.”
“Ya are,” he checked her work, nodding.
She looked proud, and something in him felt lighter. Maeve smiled, rubbed her hands over her apron to remove the sawdust and slivers of wood that had accumulated as she worked.
Jonas saw the contentment in her face. From her grin to the amusement beaming from her eyes, Maeve was pleased with her newfound success.
They stepped outside to rest, stretching out on the grass under a pine. Maeve turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. Jonas watched her, not wanting to look away, but also not wanting to disturb her.
She seemed… peaceful. For once, since she’d arrived.
Unfortunately it didn’t last.
Voices drifted from the road. Two men, talking so low that Jonas couldn’t hear the words, but he knew the sound. That same low murmur always meant gossip.
Maeve tensed beside him.
Jonas clenched his jaw. He wanted to get up, to say something, and to defend Maeve. But the words stuck. He hated that. He hated how his voice failed him when he actually needed it.
Maeve opened her eyes, lowered her head and stared at her hands.
“It’s starting again.”
“They d-don’t know ya,” Jonas swallowed.
“They think they do,” her voice was soft, but the hurt in it was real.
He reached for her hand, not really planning to. His fingers brushed her skin, maybe a little awkward, but she didn’t let go.
“Maeve,” he said, as steady as he could, “I’m…I’m g-glad yer here.”
“Even with the trouble I bring?” She looked at him, searching his face.
“Yer not t-trouble.”
She held his gaze, and for a moment that look meant the whole world to him. Jonas forgot everything except her, and her hand in his. Her sad eyes soft and searching for that silent question hanging between them.
He pictured her laughter in his house. Her voice, ringing out across the church hall they were building together. He saw a future. Not the kind he let himself dream about, really, but one he wanted now.
Then the voices out on the road broke through, loud and sharp, dragging him back, and causing Maeve to flinch.
Jonas’s heart dropped. The town didn’t want her here. He saw it in their narrowed eyes, and heard it in their tone. And honestly? He wasn’t sure he could protect her from all that. He wasn’t the kind of man who spoke up loud or fought with big words.
Most days, he was quiet. Careful. He moved slowly, said very little.
But was that enough?
“We should get back to work,” Maeve slipped her hand away, gentle but distant. Her face gave nothing away.
Jonas nodded, though his chest felt stupidly tight.
Back in the hall, something was different. Their easy rhythm was gone. Maeve moved quickly, every gesture a little too sharp with her shoulders stiff. She wasn’t humming anymore.
Jonas tried to say something, anything, but his words wouldn’t come out right. They were stuck somewhere, tangled up, and he couldn’t express himself.
He watched Maeve out of the corner of his eye, worry gnawing at him. She felt close, but at the same time, he could sense her pulling away. She was folding up on herself like something hurt and she was hiding.
He didn’t know how to stop it.
He set his hammer down. The sound echoed in the empty hall.
“Maeve,” he managed quietly.
She turned to look at him.
He wanted to say something real. But nothing came.
The silence felt thick, stretching wider and wider between them.
For the first time, Jonas really understood how big this storm was, and how small he felt inside it.
By the time Jonas and Maeve got home, the sun had already slipped down behind the pines, painting the sky with streaks of rose gold. Maeve insisted on making supper. Her voice was soft, but there was no room for argument.
Jonas could tell she needed to keep busy. Maybe she wanted to prove something to herself after the rough day they’d both had.
He headed out back with the axe. The rhythm of chopping wood settled his nerves, but he kept sneaking glances at the window.
He could see Maeve moving around inside, opening the door to his small larder, or stirring something on the stove.
Every so often, she’d brush a loose curl away from her cheek.
Honestly, he liked seeing her there. In his home. As if she fit. As if she belonged.
When he finally came back inside, the warmth of the stove wrapped around him. Maeve stood near the hearth, her apron smeared with flour, and her brow furrowed in concentration. On the table was a tray of biscuits.
Well, more like little lumps of charcoal.
Jonas blinked.
“They’re… well, a bit crispy,” Maeve darted in front of them, trying to block his view.
A wisp of smoke curled up from the pan.
“Crispy?” Jonas tried not to laugh.
Maeve puffed out her cheeks, clearly annoyed at herself.
“Burned. They’re burned. And the stew…“ She waved at the pot. “I don’t know, Jonas. The rutabagas are like rocks, and the carrots…just try it.”
He picked up a spoon, gave it a careful blow, and tasted. The broth was warm enough, but the vegetables were nearly raw. He crunched down on a rutabaga cube and almost regretted it.
“I’ve ruined everything. I should’ve known better—I never cooked at Mulligan’s. I served drinks, wiped tables, maybe sang a bit when folks asked. Never had to do more than brew a pot of tea,” Maeve let out a groan, covering her face with both hands.
Her voice almost broke at the end.
Jonas left the spoon and walked over, and gently pulled her hands from her face. Her fingers trembled.
“It’s fine. Really,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, searching for pity. He didn’t give her any.
“I’ve eaten worse,” he said, shooting her a small, crooked smile.
“That’s a lie,” Maeve gave a shaky laugh.
“A little bit,” he grinned.
Some of the tension melted from her shoulders, and he squeezed her hands.
“We don’t have to eat this. Let’s go to Miss Daisy’s. She always has stew on.”
“Jonas, I can’t just…” Maeve’s eyes went wide.
“And,” he cut in gently, “I’ll ask her to show ya a few things. If’n ya want.”
She froze.
He waited, not wanting to rush her. He just wanted her to know she had a choice.
“Ya’d do that? Ask her for me?” She breathed out, voice barely there.
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Maeve looked down at their hands, lashes fluttering.
“Yer not.” Jonas surprised himself with how firm that came out. “Yer learning. I am too, I guess. I’m glad we can figure things out together.”
“I don’t want to let you down,” she met his eyes.
“Ya won’t,” he felt a light, tender feeling crept into his chest.
They just stood there for a bit, the cabin suddenly so quiet and close it felt like a blanket. The burned biscuits and cooling stew could wait; none of it mattered.
“Aye. We’ll go,” Maeve nodded, almost to herself.
Jonas let go of her hands long enough to fetch her shawl. When he draped it over her shoulders, she gave him a small, grateful smile.
He opened the door, letting the cool night air drift in.
Maeve stepped out first, pausing a moment on the porch, as if she was gathering herself. Jonas followed, shutting the door behind them.
The night felt softer somehow. Maybe still fragile, still uncertain, but softer.
As they walked side by side toward Miss Daisy’s Eating Place, Jonas let himself hope, for once, that this might be the start of something good for both of them. Something solid, something they could build.