Chapter Nineteen – Isla
“Restaurant destroyer.”
Isla walked so quickly that Percy had to trot to keep up, his small hand clutched in hers as they left the market behind. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as curious glances followed them through the crowd. The afternoon sunshine felt too bright, too exposing.
“Mom, you’re walking super fast,” Percy complained, tugging at her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied, forcing herself to slow down. “I just remembered we have somewhere to be.”
But there was nowhere to be. Only the need to escape the market, to get away from Kirk’s face—the way his expression had shifted from warmth to confusion to something harder when he learned who she really was. What she really did.
I didn’t realize your work meant being so hard on things people care about.
He had said it quietly, but now the words came back with a sharper edge. Back then, he had not known she was a critic.
Now he did.
Now everyone did.
Anger flared, hot and sudden, in her chest. Why should she feel ashamed? She had built a career on honesty. On standards. On refusing to coddle mediocrity. Her readers counted on her for that. Needed her for that.
But beneath the anger lay something deeper, a hurt so raw she could barely look at it. The way Kirk had looked at her, as if seeing her properly for the first time and not liking what he found.
“Mom?” Percy’s voice pulled her back. “Where are we going?”
Isla stopped abruptly, realizing they had reached the town square. Across from them stood a handsome stone building with a carved wooden sign: Thornberg Restaurant.
Kirk’s family restaurant. The heart of everything he cared about.
The decision formed in an instant, hot and impulsive. If Kirk thought she was a destroyer, maybe she should show him exactly what she did. How she worked.
“We’re going to have lunch,” she told Percy, her voice steadier than she felt.
Percy’s eyes widened. “At Kirk’s family’s restaurant? Again?”
“Yes.”
She crossed the square, Percy hurrying alongside her.
The door swung open easily under her hand, welcoming them into the warm interior.
Lunch service was nearly over, and the restaurant was about half full.
Rich scents of roasting herbs and simmering sauces filled the air.
In any other mood, Isla might have closed her eyes just to take them in.
Not today. Today she was here to work.
A server approached with a welcoming smile. “Table for two?”
“Yes, please,” Isla replied, her professional mask sliding into place.
They were seated at a corner table with a clear view of the dining room—perfect for observing service patterns and plate presentations. Isla immediately noted the thoughtful spacing between tables, the quality of the linen, and the simple elegance of the place settings.
Percy fidgeted in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table. “This feels weird without Kirk,” he whispered.
The comment stung more than it should have. “We don’t need Kirk to have a nice lunch,” she said, more sharply than she intended.
Percy’s eyes widened, and Isla regretted her tone at once. Before she could apologize, a familiar figure approached the table.
“Well, look who it is.” Rachel’s smile was warm and apparently genuine. “I wasn’t expecting to see you two here today.”
“Rachel!” Percy’s face lit up. “How is the fairy garden?”
“Blooming,” Rachel said, her eyes flicking briefly to Isla’s face with a trace of curiosity. “You and the girls did a wonderful job creating it.”
Isla managed a polite smile, though her stomach tightened. Did Rachel know what had happened at the market? Had word already spread about the infamous food critic in their midst?
If Rachel knew, she gave no sign. Instead, she crouched down to Percy’s level. “But you know what it really needs? Some fresh herbs. Our chef needs thyme and rosemary for today’s special. You could help me pick some, and a little extra for the fairies.”
Percy looked at Isla, hope written all over his face.
“Go ahead,” Isla said, relieved by the thought of a few minutes alone to gather herself. “Stay where Rachel can see you.”
“Is this like foraging?” Percy asked eagerly, already sliding from his chair.
Rachel laughed. “Exactly like foraging. Just with fewer bears.”
The casual mention of bears—of Kirk—tightened something in Isla’s chest, but she forced a smile as Percy followed Rachel happily toward the glass doors leading to the courtyard garden.
Alone at the table, Isla pulled out her laptop and opened a fresh document. This was familiar territory. This was what she did.
The critic’s voice tried to slide into place, clinical and observant.
The lighting: warm but not dim, flattering to the food without casting harsh shadows.
The service: attentive without hovering, staff moving with practiced efficiency.
The menu: seasonal, locally focused, confident enough not to try to be everything.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she mentally shaped an opening line. Something about rustic elegance without pretension. A nod to the restaurant’s history while acknowledging its contemporary polish.
But for the first time in years, the words did not come easily. They felt forced. Hollow. As if she were stepping into a part she no longer quite knew how to play.
Through the glass doors, she could see Percy carefully selecting herbs under Rachel’s guidance, his face serious with concentration. He looked happy. He looked as though he belonged.
“That’s Kirk’s Isla.”
The words drifted to her from across the room. Rachel was speaking quietly to an older woman as they watched Percy examining a rosemary bush. The woman—elegant, silver-streaked dark hair framing a face that managed to look both kind and shrewd—turned and looked directly at Isla through the glass.
Not anymore, Isla thought, a surprising ache opening in her chest.
The woman said something to Rachel, then moved with calm purpose toward Isla’s table. As she drew nearer, Isla could see Kirk in her face—the same steady gaze, the same quiet strength.
“Hello,” the woman said, her voice warm and melodious. “I’m Eleanor Thornberg. Kirk’s mom. May I join you?”
Isla gestured to the empty chair, unsure what else to do. Eleanor sat opposite her and folded her hands neatly on the table.
“It’s good to finally meet you, Isla,” Eleanor said.
“You too.” Isla closed her laptop, suddenly feeling exposed with it open in front of Kirk’s mother.
Eleanor studied her for a moment, her expression kind but searching. “How are you doing?”
The gentleness of the question caught Isla off guard. She did not know what she had expected, but it had not been this.
Eleanor’s concern slipped straight through her armor.
“I’m fine,” Isla said automatically, the lie sounding thin even to her own ears.
Eleanor said nothing for a moment, and somehow that quiet made room for honesty. It reminded Isla of Kirk. The same patience. The same stillness that seemed to say, Take your time. I’m listening.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Isla whispered, the words leaving her before she could stop them.
Eleanor waited.
“I came here today to review your restaurant,” Isla said, the confession tumbling out now. “After what happened at the market—after Kirk found out what I do—I thought...” She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know what I thought. That I’d prove something. Show him who I am professionally.”
She gestured helplessly at the closed laptop. “This is what I do. I critique. I analyze. I point out flaws. My readers expect a certain voice from me—sharp, uncompromising, sometimes brutal. It’s my brand. It’s how I support Percy and myself.”
“And is that who you want to be?” Eleanor asked.
The question landed like a blow. “I... It’s who I’ve been for years now. People follow my reviews because they know I won’t sugarcoat. If I change that voice, I risk everything I’ve built.”
Eleanor’s gaze never wavered. “You’re not really talking about your work now. You’re talking about your armor.”
The words struck deeper than Isla had expected.
“I came here planning to tear into the restaurant,” Isla admitted, her throat tight. “Because I was hurt and angry, and I wanted to hurt back.”
This time, Eleanor nodded, as if that made more sense to her than anything else Isla had said.
“That,” Eleanor said gently, “is not the same thing as honesty.”
Isla looked down at her hands.
“My son can handle the truth,” Eleanor went on quietly. “What hurt him was realizing you hadn’t trusted him with it.”
That landed so squarely that it made Isla wince.
Eleanor’s gaze drifted to the courtyard, where Percy was carefully selecting herbs under Rachel’s watchful eye. “And that little boy of yours is watching how you move through the world. How you handle hurt. How you handle disappointment. Children learn from what we build around them.”
Isla followed her gaze. Percy looked happy. Safe. As if he belonged here.
“What kind of life do you want him to see you building?” Eleanor asked softly.
The question stole the breath from Isla’s lungs.
For the first time since arriving in Bear Creek, she saw it all with painful clarity. The endless cycle of restaurant visits. The calculated criticism. The clever cruelty that had become her trademark. None of it was what she truly wanted. None of it built anything lasting.
“I don’t want to live like that anymore,” she whispered.
Eleanor said nothing.
“I want to build something,” Isla said softly. “Not tear down. I want to create.”
This time, Eleanor smiled. “Now that sounds more like the woman my son saw in you.”
“I think I’ve completely ruined everything with Kirk,” Isla said, turning back to Eleanor with a pang of regret so sharp it almost hurt. “The way he looked at me when he found out what I do...”
Eleanor smiled gently and reached across the table, covering Isla’s hand with her own.
“You’re his mate,” she said simply, as though it were the plainest fact in the world.
“And that’s enough?” Isla asked.
“Oh, more than enough.” Eleanor chuckled softly. “Why don’t you let me keep Percy for a little while, and you go and find my son?”
Isla hesitated, glancing at her laptop where the beginnings of a review waited—sharp phrases already forming, critiques ready to be deployed. Words that suddenly felt alien to her, disconnected from the woman she wanted to become.
She opened the document one last time and stared at the brutal lines she had crafted out of hurt and anger. For a long moment, she simply looked at them, seeing them for what they really were—a shield, a weapon, a way of keeping the world at arm’s length while pretending to engage with it.
Then she selected the entire document and pressed delete.
“Percy would love that,” Isla said, closing the laptop.
Eleanor smiled. “Then go, Isla. Follow your heart.”
And for the first time in a very long while, Isla did.