13. Fran #2
I study him across the table, this man I married, this stranger I thought I knew, this person who seems to have transformed in the three months I’ve been gone.
He looks different. Thinner, definitely.
Tired in a way that goes beyond sleepless nights.
But there’s something else too, something I can’t quite name. A steadiness that wasn’t there before.
“I need to call my lawyer,” I say finally. “Before I decide anything. I want someone to look at these documents who works for me, not for you.”
“Of course.” He nods immediately. “That’s exactly what you should do.”
I pull out my phone and step away from the table. The call takes fifteen minutes, my lawyer in the city, the one who handled my original business contracts, agrees to review everything Logan’s sent. She calls back twenty minutes later.
“It’s clean,” she says. “Unconditional transfer, no reversionary clauses, no hidden conditions. If you sign, the title records on the next business day and the land is yours. Completely.”
I hang up and look at Logan across the coffee shop. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, hope, maybe, or just exhaustion.
“I’ll sign,” I say. “I’m accepting the land. That’s not forgiveness - it’s accepting what should have been mine all along.”
“I understand.”
“I want to see the farm,” I say. “Now. I want to go there, walk the rows, make sure it’s real.”
“Of course.” He nods quickly. “I can drive you. Or you can go alone - whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I think about it. About the four-hour drive back to the place I used to call home. About being alone in a car with Logan for that long, with all this new information and all these old wounds.
“You can drive me,” I decide. “But don’t read anything into it. This is just… transportation.”
“The farm is yours now. That part’s real.”
“And I’m choosing to come with you. My choice. Not because you asked.”
“I know. No strings.”
I stand up, leaving my half-finished herbal tea on the table. “I need to get my things from Bree’s. Say goodbye.”
“I’ll wait in the truck.”
He doesn’t try to follow me. Doesn’t push for more than I’m willing to give. Just sits there in the coffee shop booth, watching me go with an expression that’s equal parts hope and resignation.
It’s not much. But it’s something.
***
Bree doesn’t want me to go.
“Are you sure about this?” She’s standing in the doorway of the guest room, watching me pack the few things I brought. “You don’t have to leave. You can stay here as long as you need.”
“I know.” I fold a sweater, place it in my bag. “But I need to see the farm. I need to know if what he’s saying is true.”
“And if it is?”
“Then I have decisions to make.” I turn to face her. “Bree, I can’t hide here forever. I’m going to have a baby in five months. I need to figure out what my life looks like - whether that includes Logan or not.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Do you want it to include him?”
The question cuts straight to the heart of everything I’ve been avoiding. Do I want Logan in my life? In my baby’s life? Do I want to try again with a man who broke my heart in a hundred small ways before someone else tried to break my body?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think I need to find out.”
Bree pulls me into a hug, careful of my belly, fierce in its protectiveness. “Call me every day. And if he does anything, if he makes you feel unsafe for even a second-”
“I’ll come back.” I squeeze her tight. “I promise.”
While Bree fusses over last-minute details with Rosie, I step onto the back porch and pull out my phone. Two quick things before we leave.
Detective Reyes answers on the second ring. I keep it short: I’m heading back to the farm, wanted her to have current information. She thanks me, tells me to call if anything feels off, and that’s it.
Then I text Junie, my farm manager: Heading back today. Keep my return quiet. Sloane Vaughn is not allowed on the property under any circumstances. If she shows up, don’t engage, just call police. Let me know if anything seems wrong.
Her reply comes fast: Locks changed, gate code updated, staff all know. Main farmhouse is secure. Welcome home.
It’s not a guarantee of safety. Nothing is. But it’s what I can do.
Rosie’s goodbye is louder and involves more tears, mostly hers. Rafael’s goodbye is quieter, just a firm handshake and a look that says I’m trusting you with her directed at Logan, who’s waiting by his truck with the expression of a man facing a firing squad.
“Take care of her,” Rafael says, and though his voice is low, I catch every word.
“I will,” Logan replies. “I swear.”
Which is when I notice we have an audience.
At some point during all of this, the packing, the goodbyes, the low-voiced man-to-man threat over the truck bed, half of Marigold has drifted into Bree’s front yard.
Dolores. Ruth. Margaret and the twins. Three more grandmas I know by their lemon bars but not by name.
Not one of them is pretending to do anything but watch.
“So that’s the husband,” Dolores says, at a volume that assumes everyone shares her hearing situation.
“That’s the one who made her cry?” Ruth looks Logan up and down like she’s pricing him. “Hmm. He’s got the shoulders for groveling, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s very tall,” Margaret offers, as though this is evidence of something.
“Tall doesn’t mean sorry,” Dolores says darkly. “My second husband was tall.”
Logan, to his enormous credit, does not flee. He lifts one hand in a small, doomed wave. “Ma’am,” he says. “Ma’ams.”
The grandmas confer in a huddle that is neither quiet nor subtle. Whatever verdict they reach, Dolores delivers it. “Good-looking, though,” she allows. “Shame about the personality. We’ll see if it takes.”
I climb into the passenger seat. Logan starts the engine. And as we pull away from Bree’s house, the grandmas migrate to the sidewalk for a better view, watching our departure with undisguised interest and, in Dolores’s case, a slow approving nod I decide not to interpret.
“They’re going to talk about this for months,” I say.
“Let them.” Logan keeps his eyes on the road. “I don’t care what anyone thinks except you.”
We drive in silence for a while, the familiar landscape of Marigold giving way to open highway. I watch the scenery scroll past and try to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
He gave up his inheritance. He bought my farm. He says he loves me.
And I still don’t know if any of it is enough.