Chapter 5 - Lucy
The rain pounds against the cottage windows, creating a cozy soundtrack as Riley and I sit in the living room, waiting for pizza. He looks strange in my space—too large for the small armchair, too rough around the edges for the delicate floral upholstery. Yet somehow, he doesn't seem out of place.
"So," I say, breaking a silence that's stretched just a bit too long, "you've lived here your whole life?"
His amber eyes flick to mine, then away. "Born here. Left at eighteen. Came back three years ago."
Each sentence is like a door closing—brief, final. But I've always been too curious for my own good.
"Where did you go when you left?" I ask, curling my legs beneath me on the sofa.
He takes a sip of water before answering. "Military. Twelve years."
"That explains the commendations in your shop," I say, remembering the framed certificates I noticed this morning. "What made you decide to come back to Cedar Falls?"
A shadow passes over his face. "Family business."
There's something in his tone that warns me not to push further, so I switch tactics. "And the auto shop? Was that always your plan?"
"Needed a job," he says with a shrug. "Good with engines."
I can't help but smile at his economy of words. Most people I know fill silences with endless chatter. Riley seems content to let silence breathe between sentences, offering only what's necessary.
"Well, I'm glad you're good with engines," I say. "Otherwise I might still be sitting on the side of the road."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Town would've sent someone eventually."
"But then I wouldn't have met you," I say without thinking, then feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I mean, you've been so helpful, and I—"
I'm saved from my rambling by a knock at the door. The pizza has arrived, mercifully early.
Riley rises before I can, moving with surprising grace for such a large man. "I'll get it."
I hear murmured conversation at the door, then Riley returns with a pizza box and a paper bag that smells of garlic.
"I paid," he says, setting our dinner on the coffee table I've hastily cleared of boxes. "You don’t need to pay me back."
"That's... incredibly thoughtful," I say, touched and slightly overwhelmed by this continuing kindness. "Does everyone in this town just take care of each other like this?"
Riley's expression darkens slightly. "Most do."
There's a story there, but again, I sense it's not one he's ready to share. Instead, I focus on opening the pizza box and distributing napkins I found in a kitchen drawer earlier.
"Help yourself," I say, gesturing to the food. "I'm starving."
The pizza is surprisingly good—thin crust with just the right amount of cheese and perfectly spiced pepperoni.
"This is delicious," I say between bites. "Even better than yesterday’s pizza. I didn't expect to find pizza this good in a small town."
"Gino's from Chicago," Riley says. "Married a local girl twenty years ago. Brought his family recipes with him."
I smile at this unexpected bit of local gossip. "You do know everyone here, don't you?"
He shrugs, but there's no denial. "Hard not to in a town this size."
"That must be nice," I say, trying to imagine it. "In Phoenix, I barely knew my neighbors' names."
"It has its downsides," he replies, his tone neutral but his eyes revealing more. "Everyone knows your business. Your history."
I think about my father's cryptic journal entry. Unfinished business. "I guess that's why my dad never talked much about growing up here. Maybe he had something to hide."
Riley looks at me with sudden interest. "What's his name?"
"James Mitchell. He left when he was eighteen, like you." I reach for another slice of pizza. "Did you know him?"
Riley shakes his head. "Left before my time. Mitchell... I don’t really remember any. Did he go to Cedar Fall’s high school?"
"I don't know. Dad never talked about his family here."
"Town records are at the historical society," Riley offers. "Newspaper archives, too."
"Let me guess… Mrs. Abernathy again?" I ask with a smile.
He nods. "Building's only open Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she's there most days working on the anniversary exhibit."
"I'll have to visit tomorrow," I say, making a mental note.
Riley looks at me and chews his pizza. For the first time since I've met him, he seems to be considering whether to say more rather than less.
"What?" I ask when his scrutiny becomes too much.
"I was thinking… The Mitchells were one of the founding families," he says finally. "Along with the Carters, the Abernathy, and a few others. If your father was from that line, you've got deep roots here."
"Really?" This is news to me. Dad never mentioned being from a founding family. "I had no idea."
"There's a section at the historical society dedicated to the founding families. Photographs, ledgers, that sort of thing." He takes a swig of water. "Might find some answers there."
Thunder crashes outside, making me jump slightly. The rain shows no sign of letting up, sheets of water streaming down the windows, turning the world beyond into a dark blur.
"Looks like you might be stuck here a while," I say, glancing at the storm. "I'm sorry about that."
Riley shrugs. "I've been in worse."
I can only imagine what that means—what he's seen and experienced in his twelve years of military service. The shadows under his eyes tell a story of their own.
"I'm glad I'm not alone, though," I admit. "Second night in a new place during a storm like this? I'd be jumping at every creak and groan."
"Old houses talk," Riley says, his voice softening slightly. "This one's got good bones, though. Built in the forties. Original hardwood floors."
"You know a lot about this cottage?"
His eyes meet mine briefly, then slide away. "Helped Mrs. Abernathy with repairs over the years. New roof last summer. Fixed the porch railing before that."
I glance around with new appreciation. "Is there anything in this town you haven't had a hand in fixing?"
The question is meant to be light and teasing, but Riley's expression grows distant.
"Plenty," he says quietly, “The firefighters do most jobs around here. I just give a helping hand when it’s needed.”
We finish our pizza in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something about Riley that makes silence feel natural, even restful. I'm used to filling quiet moments with chatter, but with him, I don't feel that pressure.
I clear away the box and napkins, bringing back a fresh glass of water for each of us. The storm continues unabated, lightning occasionally illuminating the room in stark white flashes.
"Tell me about your book," Riley says suddenly as I sit back down.
The request surprises me. He doesn't strike me as someone particularly interested in historical fiction—or in making small talk.
"It's set in 1873," I begin, warming to my favorite subject. "Right when Cedar Falls was being established. The main character is a young woman who comes west with her husband, only to lose him in a logging accident. Instead of returning east, she decides to stay and make her own way."
Riley nods, encouraging me to continue.
"It's about resilience, really. How women carved out spaces for themselves in frontier communities. The history books focus on the men who founded these towns, but women were essential to their survival." I pause, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about it."
"Don't apologize," he says. "It's good, having something you're passionate about."
There's a wistfulness in his tone that makes me wonder what his passions might be, beyond fixing engines.
"What about you?" I ask. "What do you do when you're not rescuing stranded motorists?"
His lips quirk in what might almost be a smile. "Not much to tell. Work. Fish sometimes. House projects."
"Do you live in town?"
He shakes his head. "Got a cabin out past the falls. Ten acres, backs up to national forest."
I try to picture it—Riley in a cabin in the woods, surrounded by trees and silence. It fits him somehow.
"That sounds peaceful," I say.
"It is." He hesitates, then adds, "My grandfather built it. Only place I've ever felt... at home."
It's the most personal thing he's shared, and I sense the admission cost him something. I want to ask more—about his grandfather, about why his family home didn't feel like home—but I don't want to push my luck.
Instead, I say, "I've never had that. A place that felt completely right. That's why I move around so much, I think. Always searching."
He looks at me then, really looks at me, his amber eyes intent. "And you think you might find it here? In Cedar Falls?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But it feels like a place to start."
The power chooses that moment to flicker, the lights dimming before stabilizing. We both look up at the ceiling fixture, then at each other.
"Happens during bad storms," Riley says. "Got candles?"
I shake my head. "I haven't exactly had time to stock emergency supplies."
He rises from his chair. "I've got some in my truck. Wait here."
Before I can protest, he's heading for the door, stepping out into the downpour without hesitation. I watch through the window as he jogs to his truck, rain plastering his shirt to his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders.
A minute later he's back, dripping on my welcome mat but holding a small metal box.
"Emergency kit," he explains, setting it on the coffee table and opening it to reveal candles, matches, a flashlight, and various other supplies.
"You're prepared for everything, aren't you?" I say, oddly touched by his foresight.
"Military habit," he says, distributing candles around the room. "Always have a backup plan."
As if on cue, the lights flicker again and then go out completely, plunging us into darkness. I hear Riley striking a match, and then a warm glow illuminates his face as he lights the first candle.
"Perfect timing," I say with a nervous laugh.