Chapter 2 The Favor
The Favor
Maren
The morning light through the kitchen windows is doing its best to convince me that seven a.m. is a reasonable hour to be awake.
I'm unconvinced, but the coffee is helping.
Jackson comes downstairs with his hair still wet from the shower and pours himself a cup before settling into the chair across from me. I put my mug down. "So. Shay."
He wraps both hands around his mug. "She told me more when I called her back this morning. Before we decide anything, you need to hear it."
I leave my coffee untouched, giving him the attention I asked for last night. "I'm listening."
Jackson holds the mug between his hands without drinking. "She got in trouble a few years back. Made some bad choices when she was desperate, ended up serving time for theft. She's been out eight months now, trying to rebuild, but her record follows her everywhere. Nobody wants to take the risk."
I sit with that for a moment. It explains the eight months, explains the urgency of that message, explains why Jackson looked the way he did when he set his phone down last night.
His childhood friend went to prison, and now she can't find anyone willing to give her a second chance. "What kind of theft?"
He studies the coffee before admitting how little he knows. "I don't know the details. She didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't push. Whatever it was, she did her time. Paid her debt."
I set aside the questions he can't answer yet and return to what he's asking of us. "And now she needs work."
Jackson looks up at the possibility of doing something useful for her. "She needs a lot of things. Work is the one I can actually help with."
I think about what it means to hire someone with a criminal record.
The liability questions, the other employees' reactions, the risk that we're wrong about her and it costs us.
I also think about what it means to turn away someone who's trying to rebuild their life, to be one more door that closes in their face.
"Grounds crew. Trial basis. We see how she does, whether she shows up on time, whether she works well with the rest of the team.
If it's not working out, we address it. If she earns a permanent spot, she earns it. "
Jackson sets down his coffee and comes around the table. He kisses me, both hands warm against my face. "Thank you."
I rest my hands over his wrists, holding him still long enough to make sure he hears the condition. "This is a job offer, not a favor. She'll be expected to work like anyone else."
His hands stay against my face, warm with relief. "She will. I know she will."
I ease back so he has to look at me instead of kissing the conversation closed. "And I want to meet her before she starts. Talk to her myself."
Jackson lowers his hands and returns to his chair. "Of course."
I can see how much this means to him, the way his shoulders have dropped from where they were carrying tension I hadn't consciously noticed. Whoever Shay Denton is, whatever she did, Jackson believes she deserves this chance. I trust his judgment. I trust him. "When can she start?"
He checks the message on his phone before giving me the day. "She could be here Thursday. She's been staying with a cousin in Cheyenne, doesn't have much keeping her there."
I think of the empty guest house, then of the terms I've just set. "Thursday works. We'll set her up in the guest house until she finds her own place."
He kisses me again, and I let myself lean into it, into him, into the certainty that this is the right thing to do. Everyone deserves a chance to rebuild. I believe that. I've always believed that.
Shay Denton arrives on Thursday.
I'm on the porch with two glasses of sweet tea when an unfamiliar sedan pulls up the drive. Jackson is already moving toward it before the engine cuts off, and something about his pace makes me notice. Eager. Almost urgent.
She climbs out slowly, a duffel bag over one shoulder. Dark hair cut sharp at the jaw, features that give nothing away. Her eyes find Jackson first, and her whole face changes into something almost soft. Then she sees me on the porch and the softness disappears like it was never there.
Jackson reaches her and she drops the duffel to hug him. She keeps her arms around him while I wait with the tea. When she finally steps back, she turns to face me fully. Her gaze travels from my face to my boots and back up, cataloging. Assessing.
Shay keeps one hand on Jackson's arm while she looks me over. "You must be the wife."
The words land flat. Not hostile exactly, but not friendly either.
"Maren." I come down the porch steps with the tea glasses. "It's nice to meet you. Jackson's told me a little about you, though I'm looking forward to hearing more."
Her eyebrows lift. "Jackson always did like brunettes."
I wait for my husband to say something. To acknowledge the comment, correct it, redirect the conversation. Instead he laughs, easy and warm, like she's made a joke worth appreciating.
Why is he laughing? She just reduced me to a hair color, and he thinks it's funny?
Jackson picks up her duffel. "Let me show you where you'll be staying. Guest house is a short walk. Maren fixed it up nice."
They head off together, and I'm left standing on my own porch holding two glasses of sweet tea that nobody wanted. I watch them go, heads tilted toward each other, Jackson's hand briefly touching her elbow to steer her around a rough patch in the path.
When they come back, Shay's demeanor has shifted. Pleasant now, almost friendly. "I'd love to see the main house, if you don't mind. Jackson talks about it so much."
So I walk her through the downstairs, playing tour guide in my own home.
The kitchen with the six-burner stove and the copper pots I've collected over the years.
The living room where three generations of Wilder photographs line the walls.
The study where Jackson's father worked before he died, still kept almost exactly as he left it.
Shay nods at everything, comments on nothing. Her eyes move constantly, taking in details I can't track.
Upstairs, I show her the guest bathroom, the one we keep stocked for visitors. She barely glances at it before wandering past me down the hall. Toward the master bedroom.
I follow, finding her stopped in front of my vanity.
The jewelry box sits open the way I always leave it, because this is my home and I've never had a reason to do otherwise.
Shay reaches in and lifts my grandmother's opal, holding it up to the light from the window.
The stone throws color across her fingers, blue and green and fire. "Beautiful. Antique?"
I hold out my hand for the necklace. I don't want to have to ask twice. "My grandmother's."
"Must be worth something." She turns it over, examining the setting. "You leave it just sitting out like this?"
I look from the open box to her fingers, waiting for her to put it down. "It's my home."
She sets the necklace back in the box, but her fingers rest on the velvet edge a moment too long. "Nice to have a home you feel that safe in."
Is that a compliment? A judgment? I can't tell, and something about not being able to tell makes me want her out of my bedroom. "The bathroom's this way."
That night, I wait until Jackson is getting ready for bed. He's pulling a shirt over his head when I decide I've waited long enough. "The comment she made. 'You must be the wife.' That was rude, Jackson."
He turns, face neutral. "What do you mean?"
I stay in the doorway instead of joining him on the bed. "I mean she reduced me to 'the wife.' Like I'm interchangeable. Like I don't have a name."
"She's just awkward." He finishes getting dressed, sits on the edge of the bed. "She's had a rough few years. Give her time to adjust."
I wish he'd been watching her face instead of enjoying the attention. "She wasn't awkward with you. She was warm with you. She laughed with you. The awkwardness seems to be specifically for me."
"Maren." His voice is patient, which somehow makes it worse. "She doesn't know you yet. She knows me. It makes sense that she'd be more comfortable with me."
I want to push harder, but I can see him settling into the position he's already taken. Explanation delivered. Case closed. "She went into our bedroom during the tour. I was showing her the guest bath and she just walked past me into the master."
Jackson pauses with his hand on the blanket, apparently waiting for the part that should concern him. "So?"
I point toward the vanity, because the box is right there. This happened in our room. "So she picked up my grandmother's necklace. Held it up to the light. Asked if it was worth something, asked why I leave it sitting out."
Jackson shrugs. "She's probably just not used to nice things. Curious about them. I wouldn't read too much into it."
I stay standing while he gets comfortable. I don't want him to mistake this for idle conversation. "She shouldn't have been in our bedroom at all. I didn't invite her in there."
He settles against the pillows as though that explains everything. "It's a tour. People wander."
I look at the jewelry box and then back at him, refusing to pretend this is an ordinary house tour. "People don't wander into the master bedroom and start handling jewelry."
He reaches for the book on his nightstand. "I think you're making this into something bigger than it is. Shay's been through a lot. She's trying to figure out how to act normal again. Cut her some slack."
Did he hear anything I just said?
I stand in the bathroom doorway while my husband settles back against the pillows and finds his page. The lamp casts warm light across his face and he looks perfectly calm, perfectly convinced that I'm overreacting.
Maybe I am. I want to give her a fair chance. But does that mean I have to let her touch whatever she wants?
But I can't stop thinking about the way she looked at that opal. The way her fingers lingered.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, go through the motions of getting ready for bed.
Jackson's hand finds my thigh when I climb in beside him, automatic and familiar.
He doesn't look up from his book. "She starts tomorrow.
The grounds foreman is expecting her at seven.
I think this is going to be good for everyone. "
I lie beside him with my hands resting on top of the blanket, unable to return the reassurance he expects. "I hope so."
He squeezes my leg once and goes back to reading. I lie there in the dark after he turns off the light, listening to his breathing slow.
The jewelry box on my vanity is still open. I can see it from here, the opal catching the moonlight through the window.
I get up, cross the room quietly so I don't wake Jackson, and close the lid.
Why am I the one lying awake over this?
I look back at my husband. He's sleeping just fine.