Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
JOE
Thursday
Joe finished packing up his gear, his tent, backpack, everything. One by one, the pieces of his life here disappeared into bags and crates until the campsite was just bare dirt and flattened pine needles. By the time he was done, it looked like he’d never been here at all.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and took in the fire ring, cold and gray, the square of ground where his tent had been, the view of the lake through the trees. It was all exactly the same as the first night he’d arrived and, somehow, completely different.
He zipped the duffel slowly, the sound lost in the outdoors.
He scooped up the camera bag last. The weight of it should’ve felt familiar, comforting. It didn’t, not anymore.
He told himself he’d be back.
Three months. Maybe four, depending on the assignment. He’d come home with memory cards full of cathedrals and cobblestone alleys and markets, and he’d swing through Maple Falls like it was the most natural thing in the world .
He told himself that.
Except his chest didn’t buy it.
Krista wasn’t talking to him. He didn’t want to leave this way, but what choice did he have? She hadn’t returned any of his texts or phone calls, and no one answered the door when he’d swung by her place that morning before packing up.
She wasn’t at her grandparents’ house either when he’d dropped by.
But Alice was, and she’d insisted on standing to hug him goodbye. “Don’t you argue with me,” she said when he tried to protest. “I’m old, not breakable.”
He bent carefully, letting her arms wrap around his middle. She smelled like honey and lavender lotion and hospital soap that hadn’t quite faded yet.
“You take pictures of something pretty for me,” she said into his shirt. “Send them to Krista. She’ll show me.”
His throat went tight. “Yes, ma’am.”
Walt clapped him on the shoulder, rough and steady. “You know where we are,” he said.
“I’ll be back,” Joe answered automatically.
Kit met him in the driveway of the campground with a white bakery box and suspiciously shiny eyes.
“Travel rations,” she said, thrusting it at him. She’d written Don’t Be A Stranger across the lid in pink permanent marker, the letters slightly crooked. She hesitated, then leaned in and hugged him hard. “You better not let this be a one-way trip.”
He hugged her back. “I’ll do my best.”
The “best” didn’t feel like much, but it was all he had to offer right now.
Joe drove through town, taking it all in. He waved at Zoe and Jackson, who were adding even more flowers to her front window display. Madison waved from the front porch of the inn where she was chatting with Mayor Bloomfield. He was impossible to miss with his bright blue pantsuit and cane.
Mrs. Bishop and Mrs. C. stood outside the bakery, phones out, as if they were recording an historic event.
One by one, they all waved as he drove past. He lifted a hand in return, heart banging against his ribs, and eased the rental car down the road. The lake flashed silver between the trees. In the rearview mirror, the Hideaway’s patio shrank, fairy lights already glimmering in the early twilight.
He should’ve kept driving.
Instead, he pulled to the side of the lane and put the Jeep in park.
For a long second, he just sat there, hands on the wheel, listening to the tick of the cooling engine and the faint sounds drifting up from the water.
Then muscle memory took over.
He reached for his camera, stepped out of the car, and turned back toward the Hideaway.
The building golden against the deepening sky, windows warm, string lights casting soft halos over the picnic tables.
Someone laughed on the patio. A figure moved in the doorway—just a blur from this distance, more suggestion than detail—but the tilt of the shoulders, the way she leaned against the frame, made his chest squeeze.
He lifted the camera and framed the shot. Not just the building. Not just the lights. But all of it. He didn’t want to forget a single second of any of it, or most importantly, the woman who made this place feel like the only home he’d ever had.