Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The basement fellowship hall at Haven Ridge Baptist Church smelled like coffee and decades of potluck dinners. Claire arranged her notes on the folding table while five other women from the hospitality committee settled into metal chairs that scraped against linoleum.
Rachael Bennett, the pastor’s wife, called the meeting to order with her gentle voice and an upraised hand. “Let’s start with spring outreach meal assignments. Claire, you’ve been coordinating that these last few weeks. Why don’t you walk us through what we have coming up?”
She pulled out her spreadsheet and cleared her throat.
Even when managing casserole deliveries, her old CPA habits tended to crop up.
“We have three families with immediate needs. The Millers just had their baby, Mrs. Jacobson is recovering from hip surgery, and the Hendersons are still dealing with medical bills that made grocery budgets tight.”
“That Henderson situation breaks my heart.” Elderly Mrs. Patterson shook her head, the movement setting her silver curls bouncing. “Six thousand dollars after insurance. I don’t know how young families manage these days.”
“Claire’s been helping them negotiate a payment plan.” Rachael dipped her head toward Claire. “She’s such a blessing to this community.”
The praise settled in an uncomfortable knot. She loved helping people, but being called out publicly with this kind of praise had always bothered her. She focused on the neat columns in her spreadsheet. “Just doing what I can while I’m here.”
“Speaking of helping families.” Rachael poured herself coffee from the carafe on the side table. “I’ve been thinking about the community freezer program. Remember how 4C Ranch used to sponsor that? Fresh beef for families who needed it, no questions asked. It was such a lifeline.”
Claire’s pen stilled on the page.
“What happened to that?” One of the younger women, Sarah, leaned forward. “My sister’s family used that program when her husband was laid off. Said it kept them fed for three months.”
“Luke Calloway discontinued it last year.” Rachael’s lips puckered, but she didn’t say another word.
Claire kept her face blank, but her fingers pressed so hard into the pen the plastic left marks on her skin.
“That’s a shame.” Mrs. Patterson sighed. “His grandfather started that program. Always said feeding folks was the most efficient use of resources the good Lord gave us.”
She made a note in the margin of her spreadsheet and avoided anyone who might look her way. Many of them knew about the recent request for her to consult at the ranch, but so far no one had asked any questions.
The meeting continued with meal assignments and coordination logistics. Claire volunteered to take the Miller family dinner since she’d be cooking for Granny Mama anyway, and Mrs. Patterson offered to handle Mrs. Jacobson’s meals for the next two weeks.
By the time they finished, Claire’s head ached with the weight of trying to balance genuine care for these families against the frustration building in her chest every time she learned about another program Luke had eliminated.
She gathered her papers, said her goodbyes, and drove home with the radio off, needing silence to sort through the tangle of thoughts.
Granny Mama stood in the kitchen when Claire walked in, flour dusting her apron and the sweet scent of apple pie filling the small house.
“You’re baking?” She set her purse on the counter, eyeing the three pies cooling on wire racks. “I thought we agreed you’d take it easy on Saturdays.”
Granny Mama wiped her hands on a dish towel, leaving white streaks across the faded blue fabric. “Taking it easy is for people who’ve given up on living. Besides, the Quinns have a few visitors from Seattle today. Figured they’d appreciate a sweet treat.”
Of course she did. Granny Mama had been caring for this community since before Claire was born, and no amount of doctor’s orders would convince her to stop.
Claire moved to the stove where a pot of chicken soup simmered. “Is this for the Millers?”
“Started it this morning. Just needs to cool before you take it over.” Granny Mama pulled a casserole dish from the oven, the scent of cheesy potatoes and ham making Claire’s stomach rumble. “Made them a breakfast bake too. New mothers need food they can eat with one hand.”
The casual wisdom in that statement made Claire’s throat tighten. This was what community looked like when you actually cared about people instead of treating them like line items to be optimized.
Claire hugged her grandmother from behind, breathing in the familiar scent of flour and vanilla. “You’re amazing, but you need to rest. Doctor said—”
“Doctor said I’m doing fine as long as I don’t overdo it.” Granny Mama patted Claire’s arm. “Cooking a few meals isn’t overdoing it. Now give me a hand so I can go sit down.”
A laughing snort trickled out.
They worked together, preparing the meal delivery for the Miller family and packing it all in a clean basket. Claire added fresh rolls and a jar of Granny Mama’s homemade jam. She reached for the soup locked up in a travel container and slid it closer.
Granny Mama swayed beside her. One minute she gripped a lid in her left hand and the next she grabbed for the counter, holding on so tight her knuckles went white.
“Gran?” Claire shot forward, grabbing hold of the older woman with both hands around her elbows to hold her in place.
“I’m fine. Just turned around too quickly.” But her face paled beneath her usual rosy complexion.
“Sit. Now.”
“You don’t have to order me around.” A wrinkled hand flapped at the air, but she moved toward the nearest chair and sat without arguing.
She guided Granny Mama to a kitchen chair, her own hands trembling as she knelt beside her grandmother. This was why she’d moved home. This exact moment—watching the woman who’d raised her after her parents died become suddenly, terrifyingly fragile.
“Do you need me to call Dr. Morrison?” Claire pressed her fingers to Granny Mama’s wrist, counting her pulse and trying to remember if it felt normal or if panic was distorting her perception.
“No doctors.” Granny Mama’s color was already returning, but the episode had shaken her. She clasped her hands together in her lap, steadying them with slow, even breaths as she closed her eyes. “It’s just the medicine adjustment. Takes a few weeks to level out.”
“That’s not what the dizzy spells mean. You need to be more careful. What if you’d fallen? What if I wasn’t here?”
“But you were here.” Granny Mama reached up and cupped Claire’s face, the gesture so familiar it made Claire’s eyes burn. “And I’m fine, sweetheart. I promise.”
A hollow promise just like the one Dad gave her right before his car accident. Granted, it had been true. There was nothing wrong with Dad. Promises didn’t prevent loss; they made the loss hurt more.
She helped Granny Mama to the living room couch, insisting she stay there while Claire finished the meal prep. The work kept her hands busy but did nothing to quiet the fear.
What if she couldn’t handle this alone?
The question followed her as she loaded the Miller family’s meal into her car, drove across town to their small house, and spent fifteen minutes cooing over their week-old daughter while pretending her own hands weren’t still shaky.
When she returned home, the afternoon sun was slanting long across the porch, and a truck she recognized sat in the driveway.
Luke Calloway stood beside his tailgate, unloading split firewood.
Claire parked and climbed out. Her keys jingled, and Luke turned. “What are you doing here?”
Late afternoon sunlight caught the sharp planes of his face. He’d left his hat in the truck, and his hair fell across his forehead until he shoved it back. Must be a common problem for him. “Brought you firewood.”
“I can see that.” She crossed her arms over her stomach, hugging her elbows against her ribs. “Why?”
He lifted an armful of logs like they weighed nothing. “Because it’s going to drop below freezing tonight. Late spring does that sometimes. Your woodpile is almost empty. Where do you want these?”
Having him here, performing this nice task to help take care of her and Gran shouldn’t bother her, but it did. Luke Calloway did not perform nice tasks out of the decency of his heart. He’d all but admitted that himself, and his financial spreadsheets proved it. “You don’t need to do this.”
He carried the wood toward the side of the house where her depleted woodpile sat. “But I’m here now, so I might as well finish.”
Claire followed him, watching as he stacked the logs with the same methodical precision he probably brought to everything else in his life. Each piece was placed carefully, building a structure that would hold.
“How did you know we needed firewood?” She hadn’t noticed the dwindling supply because the temperature hadn’t warranted it.
“Your grandmother mentioned it to my mom at church last Sunday.” Luke bent for another load. “Said she’d been meaning to get some delivered but hadn’t gotten around to it.”
Of course Granny Mama had mentioned it. “I could’ve handled it.” Claire’s hands clenched at her sides.
“I’m sure you could’ve. But now you don’t have to.
” He kept working while Claire stood uselessly by, uncertain whether to help or demand he leave or just accept this strange act of service she hadn’t asked for.
The silence stretched between them, filled only with the thud of wood on wood and the distant sound of a neighbor’s dog barking.
After he’d emptied the truck bed, Luke walked up the porch steps and tested the railing with both hands.
“What are you doing now?” Claire climbed the steps behind him. He needed to leave. She did not need this new and improved version of Luke scrambling her brain. A closed-off Luke messed with her enough, thank you very much. A kind and helpful one was bound to give her heart all kinds of trouble.
“This railing’s loose.” He pushed against it, and the whole section shifted. “When’s the last time someone checked these bolts?”