Chapter 24 Moving Home
Moving Home
Maren
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The apartment looks smaller with boxes stacked against the walls. I stand in the center of what used to be my living room and let myself feel the strange compression of my months here reduced to cardboard and packing tape, a life that fit into twelve boxes and a few trips down the stairs.
"That's the last of the kitchen supplies." Jackson sets a box on the counter and straightens, rolling his shoulders. "You want me to start loading, or are you still deciding what goes where?"
"Start loading. The truck bed's got the tarp, so rain won't be an issue." I run my hand along the windowsill where I used to sit with my morning coffee, watching Main Street wake up. "I need a few minutes."
He doesn't ask why. Just nods and picks up the nearest box, his footsteps steady on the stairs. I hear him greeting someone in the hallway, probably Mr. Hendricks from 3B, and then the sound fades and I'm alone with the bare walls and the dust motes floating in the afternoon light.
This apartment saved me. I need to remember that before I leave it behind.
Delilah drove me to her house the night I left. I stayed in her guest room while I looked for somewhere of my own, and this place was the one I chose. Mrs. Patterson handed me the key without telling me how lucky I was to be a Wilder or asking when I intended to go back.
I cross to the bedroom doorway. I remember lying in bed after the birthday party, asking Jackson to leave after a night I'd wanted with him. He left. It was a small thing to ask and a large thing to be able to trust him to do.
My phone buzzes with Hank Morrison's confirmation of the December retreat. Sixty guests at his Montana ranch, the date we've been discussing since the sale dinner. I check the message and put the phone away. My team and I will travel up for three days. I'm looking forward to it.
The commercial kitchen stays mine. The clients stay mine. Coming home doesn't mean handing over the work I built before we were married and kept building while we were apart.
A knock on the open door makes me turn. Mrs. Patterson stands in the hallway, her silver hair pinned back the way she always wears it, her cardigan the same shade of blue as the awnings on her hardware store.
"Jackson said you were finishing up." She steps inside and looks around at the bare walls, the stacked boxes, the life I'm taking with me. "I remember when you moved in. You looked like a woman who needed walls around her."
"I was." I meet her eyes. "You gave me that. A place where I could figure out who I was without him."
Mrs. Patterson rests her hand on the empty key hook. "Did you figure it out?"
The question lands somewhere deep. I think about the catering jobs I took on, the recipes I developed, the mornings I woke up alone and made myself get out of bed anyway.
I think about the opal pendant around my neck, recovered now, warm against my skin.
I think about the earrings in my jewelry box, his anniversary gift from the anniversary hotel, packed beside the letter he mailed after I returned the cookbook.
"I figured out that I'm someone who can stand on her own." I pick up the last box from the counter, the one with my grandmother's recipe cards and Delilah's cast iron skillet wrapped in kitchen towels. "And that standing on my own doesn't mean I have to stand alone."
Mrs. Patterson nods slowly. "That husband of yours carried a lot of boxes today. Didn't complain once, even when he banged his shin on your bed frame."
I glance toward the stairs, remembering the thump and his muffled curse. "He's learning."
"So are you, I expect." She pulls me into a hug, brief and fierce, and when she steps back her eyes are suspiciously bright. "You come back and see me. Not because you need the apartment, but because I'll miss you."
"I will." I mean it. "Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. For everything."
Jackson appears in the doorway behind her. "Truck's loaded. You ready?"
I take one last look at the apartment and put the key in Mrs. Patterson's hand. Am I ready? Jackson waits by the door without reaching for my box. Yes. I want to go with him.
"Yeah." I heft the box against my hip. "I'm ready."
The drive to the ranch takes twenty minutes. Jackson tells me Delilah has recruited Jake to help with Christmas, although the man has carefully avoided admitting what he's agreed to.
"He thinks he's hanging lights." Jackson turns onto our road. "Mom bought matching sweaters."
I laugh at the idea of Jake finding that out. "Has she told him?"
"Apparently surprises are good for a relationship." Jackson gives me a sideways look. "I felt I should warn you before she orders ours."
"You can have the one with the glitter." I rest my hand on his thigh. "I'll tell her you insisted."
"She's protective of you, too." He glances over at me. "She wanted me to tell you that the guest room is always available if you need space. Even now. Even after you move back in."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Tell her I appreciate it. I'll still come for lunch."
Jackson covers my hand where it rests on his leg, pretending to consider this sudden loss of privileges. "Without me?"
I keep my hand on his leg, enjoying the ordinary closeness. "She and I had a life while you weren't invited. We intend to keep it."
He covers my hand with his. "Fair. Just don't let her order the sweaters."
The main house appears around the final curve, and I feel my heart rate pick up.
Not fear, not anymore. Just anticipation, the same flutter I felt the first time Jackson brought me here, seven years ago, when everything was new and I couldn't quite believe this beautiful man wanted me to see his world.
We unload the truck together, working in easy rhythm.
Jackson carries the heavy boxes while I direct traffic, pointing him toward the bedroom, the kitchen, the office where I've set up a small desk for menu planning and invoices.
By the time the truck bed is empty, the house is scattered with evidence of my return.
"Leave the unpacking for tomorrow." Jackson catches my hand as I reach for a box cutter. "I want to cook for you."
I leave the box cutter on the counter and let him keep my hand. "You cooked last time."
"And you were impressed." He tugs me toward the kitchen, that crooked grin I love spreading across his face. "Let me impress you again. It's good for my ego."
I follow him, unwilling to let that grin go entirely unchallenged. "Your ego is fine."
He opens the refrigerator and takes out the ingredients he's set aside. "You spent the morning packing. Sit with me while I do this."
I settle onto a stool at the kitchen island and watch him move through our kitchen. Our kitchen. The word feels different now, weighted with choice instead of assumption. I chose to come back here. I chose this life, this man, this future we're building from the wreckage of what we almost lost.
I watch him set two plates out, automatically leaving my favorite place clear. "I'll be gone for three days in December. For Montana."
He turns down the heat beneath the pan before facing me. "Call me when you get there. I want to hear how it goes."
"You'll regret that when I have opinions about their kitchen." I steal a carrot from the board. "Many opinions."
Jackson catches my hand before I can steal another. "I've missed your opinions. Even the ones about where I put things in the fridge."
I point at the carton blocking half the shelf. "You put milk in front of everything. I have to move it to find dinner."
He opens the fridge and moves the milk to the side, then comes back to stand between my knees. "There. I've solved one of our problems."
I laugh and put the carrot down so I can touch him. "Don't get smug. There's still your sock drawer."
I loop my arms around his neck and let myself sink into the feeling of being held. His shirt smells like onions and cold air and the particular scent that's just him, and I breathe it in while the pan simmers on the low heat he set.
"I want to renew our vows." The words come out before I've fully decided to say them. "Not because the ones we made don't count anymore. But because I want to choose this again. Choose you again. Out loud, where we can both hear it."
Jackson goes still against me. "You mean a ceremony?"
"Small. Just family and a few friends." I pull back enough to see his face. "We could do it on the porch, where we got married the first time. Your mom could officiate, since we're already legally married and don't need anything official. Early December, before the snow gets too deep."
His thumb stops against my waist. For once, I have managed to surprise him completely. "You've thought about this."
"I've thought about a lot of things." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "I've thought about what I want my life to look like. What I want our life to look like. And I keep coming back to the same answer."
Jackson waits with his forehead against mine, giving me room to say it. "Which is?"
"You." I kiss him softly. "Us. This. Not because I'm supposed to want it, or because it's easier than leaving. Because I looked at all my options, and you're still the one I choose."
His arms tighten around me. "December. The porch. Mom presiding." A laugh rumbles through his chest. "She's going to be insufferable about this. You know that, right?"
"She's going to be delighted." I grin against his shoulder. "And yes, probably insufferable. But in a loving way."
He looks toward his mother's house through the kitchen window. "Is there any other way with Delilah Wilder?"
I step back to let him return to the stove. "And afterward, could we have the little cottage to ourselves? No guests to see off. Just us."
Jackson reaches for the plates, already smiling. "I'll get it ready. We can leave Mom and Jake in charge of the goodbyes."
Jackson returns to the stove, and I stay close enough to steal one more carrot. He catches me doing it and slides the board within easier reach. I missed being welcome in his way.
We eat at the kitchen table with candles lit and wine poured, talking about everything and nothing.
He tells me he's made a booking with the flying instructor in Cody.
I tell him about the Paris pastry intensive I'm looking at for spring, two weeks in a professional kitchen learning techniques I've only read about.
He asks questions instead of offering opinions, and when I mention the cost, he doesn't flinch.
He leans forward, listening while I describe the course. "You should do it. You've wanted to expand your skills for years."
I turn my wineglass by the stem. I want the course. Why am I making it sound like a confession? "It's two weeks away from home."
Jackson reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Send me the dates once you've picked them. I'll want photographs of whatever you make."
I reach for my phone to show him the course page. "You'll get photographs of everything. Including the things I have to try twice."
He grins at that. "Good. I'll send you photographs of me trying to look calm beside an airplane."
After dinner, we wash dishes together and then climb the stairs to the bedroom, our bedroom, the room I walked out of in June and chose to walk back into today.
The bed is made with the quilt we picked out together in our second year of marriage, blue and cream in a pattern that reminds me of the sky over the mountains.
"I'm glad you're home." Jackson pulls me close in the doorway, his voice low against my hair. "I know I said it already. I'm going to keep saying it."
"You can say it as many times as you want." I tip my face up to meet his kiss, slow and sweet and full of promise. "I'm glad I'm home too."
We fall asleep tangled together, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders, the opal pendant still warm against my throat. Through the window, I can see stars scattered across the winter sky, and I watch them until my eyes grow heavy and the world softens into dreams.
Tomorrow I'll call Delilah about the ceremony. God help us, she'll probably have a guest list ready before I finish asking.
But tonight, I just sleep. Home at last, and ready for everything that comes next.
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