16. Fran
— ? —
Fran
I wake to the smell of tea again.
This time, though, something’s different. When I shuffle into the kitchen in my oversized sleep shirt, Logan is standing at the counter with a notebook in his hand, studying it like he’s preparing for an exam.
“What are you doing?”
He startles, nearly dropping the notebook. “I was - I wanted to get your tea right. I’ve been guessing, but I thought I should actually ask.” He stops, takes a breath. “How do you actually like it?”
I stare at him. In nineteen months of marriage, he never once asked me how I liked my tea. He just made it the way he made his own and assumed I’d adapt.
“Two sugars,” I say slowly. “And a splash of milk.”
He nods, writing it down. Actually writing it down, like it’s important information worth recording.
“And in the morning, I like it stronger than normal,” I add. “The baby makes me tired.”
“Stronger. Got it.” He turns back to the teapot, adjusting the proportions. “Anything else? Temperature preferences? Specific mug?”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I’m asking.” He glances over his shoulder. “I spent almost two years not asking, and I’m trying to do better. If that feels like mockery, I understand, but it’s not meant that way.”
I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, unsure what to do with this version of him. The Logan I married would have made the tea his way and been vaguely confused when I didn’t drink it. This Logan is taking notes.
“The blue mug,” I say finally. “The one with the chip in the handle. It’s my favorite.”
He finds it in the cabinet, pours the tea, and sets it in front of me with an almost nervous expression. “If it’s wrong, tell me. I’ll fix it.”
I take a sip. It’s perfect, rich and strong and sweet, exactly what I needed. The shock of it catches in my throat.
“It’s good,” I manage.
His whole face lights up. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” But he’s smiling as he turns back to make his own cup, and I’m smiling too, and I don’t know what’s happening to me.
After breakfast, I find a book on the coffee table that wasn’t there before.
It’s a pregnancy guide, one of those comprehensive ones that covers everything from conception to birth, with chapters on nutrition and exercise and what to expect each trimester.
The cover is slightly worn, and when I flip it open, I see why: the margins are full of notes.
Blocky handwriting I recognize, annotations on almost every page.
Week 19: baby is the size of a mango. Can hear sounds. Talk to it?
Important: folic acid. Make sure she’s taking vitamins.
Back pain common this trimester. Offer massage? Ask first.
I flip through more pages, finding more notes. Questions he’s written to himself. Reminders about symptoms to watch for. A whole section on labor that’s been highlighted and annotated so heavily the text is barely visible underneath.
“I picked that up in town yesterday,” Logan says from the doorway. “After I found you. I wanted to catch up on everything I’d missed.”
I look up at him, this man who’s been studying pregnancy like it’s a craft he needs to master, who stayed up all night annotating a book he bought the day after learning he was going to be a father.
“You read the whole thing?”
“Almost cover to cover since I got it.” He shrugs, self-conscious. “I take notes because I’m not good at remembering things otherwise. And I want to remember everything. I have a lot of catching up to do.”
I don’t know what to say. The book in my hands feels heavy with the weight of his effort, his determination to make up for lost time now that he finally knows.
“The massage thing,” I say finally. “That’s actually a good idea. My back has been killing me.”
“I could-” He stops. “I mean, if you wanted. I could try. I’m not trained or anything, but I’ve watched some videos, and-”
“Videos?”
“YouTube has tutorials for everything.” He looks embarrassed. “I may have gone a little overboard with the research.”
I laugh despite myself. “A little?”
“Fine. A lot overboard.” He’s smiling now, that rare unguarded smile I used to see only in the dark. “But in my defense, I’ve only known about this for two days, and I haven’t slept much since.”
“So you became an expert on pregnancy instead?”
“I became an expert on yours.” His voice softens. “Or I’m trying to be.”
The book is still open in my hands, his handwriting visible on every page. I close it carefully and set it on the table.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the book. For the notes. For - all of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’re quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that used to feel suffocating in our old house but feels different here. Less empty. Less alone.
“I should check on the workers,” I say finally. “Junie said something about pruning the dahlias today.”
“Need help?”
“Not with the flowers. But-” I hesitate, remembering the list of things I’ve been ignoring since I got back. “There’s a step on the front porch that’s been loose for months. I keep tripping on it.”
“I noticed.” He straightens. “I can fix that. If you want.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Fran.” He meets my eyes. “Nothing you ask me to do is too much trouble.”
By mid-morning, the step is rebuilt.
I come back from the dahlia beds to find Logan putting the finishing touches on a piece of woodwork that’s sturdier and more elegant than what was there before.
He’s added a subtle reinforcement underneath, visible only if you know where to look, and sanded the whole thing smooth so there’s no chance of splinters.
“You didn’t have to make it pretty,” I say, examining his work.
“I didn’t make it pretty. I made it functional.” He wipes sawdust from his hands. “The pretty part just… happened.”
“Right. Because you can’t help yourself.”
“I really can’t.” He looks at the step with critical eyes. “The grain on the replacement board doesn’t quite match the original. I could stain it, if that bothers you-”
“It doesn’t bother me.” I sit down on the newly rebuilt step, testing its sturdiness. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He sits beside me, leaving space between us, and we look out at the farm together.
The workers are visible in the distance, moving between rows of flowers with the practiced efficiency I’ve always loved about this place.
Gertrude is patrolling the perimeter, honking at anything that dares to cross her territory.
“I’ve been thinking,” Logan says after a while. “About the baby’s room.”
My stomach tightens. “What about it?”
“I wanted to ask what you’ve been thinking. If you’ve thought about it at all.” He turns to face me. “Where the nursery would be, what kind of setup you’d want. I could help, if you wanted. But only if you ask me to.”
“Only if I ask?”
“This is your house. I want to know what you want for it.”
I wait for the catch. The Logan I knew would have already drawn up plans, probably ordered materials, possibly started building without consulting me at all. That Logan operated on the assumption that he knew best, that his vision should supersede anyone else’s preferences.
This Logan is asking.
“I don’t know what I want yet,” I admit. “I haven’t really let myself think that far ahead. Maybe a corner of my bedroom. But I haven’t decided anything.”
“That makes sense.” He nods. “When you do know, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. No pressure.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He stands, brushing off his pants. “I should check on Gertrude. Make sure she hasn’t declared war on the mailman.”
I watch him walk toward the goose’s territory. He asked. He listened. He didn’t push.
The decision is still mine to make. That matters more than I expected.
***
The afternoon brings a small crisis with the Henderson wedding flowers.
The mother of the bride calls in a panic about the color palette, she’s decided that blush pink is “too predictable” and wants to switch everything to coral ten weeks before the event.
I spend an hour on the phone talking her down, then another hour with Junie reorganizing our order schedule to accommodate the compromise we finally reached.
In between calls, there’s a knock at the farmhouse door. When I open it, I find Wyatt Brennan from the nursery in town, his truck loaded with the soil amendments I’d ordered weeks ago.
“Fran! Heard you were back.” He grins, hoisting a bag onto his shoulder. “Junie said you’d want these delivered direct. Where do you want them?”
“By the greenhouse, if you don’t mind. I’ll show you.”
Wyatt’s been my supplier since I started the farm, reliable, knowledgeable, and unfailingly cheerful. As we walk toward the greenhouse, he chatters about the new perennial varieties he’s been propagating, and I find myself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of farm talk.
“So,” he says as he stacks the last bag, “I was wondering - there’s a new Italian place in town. Would you want to grab dinner sometime? Catch up properly?”
The invitation is casual, friendly, but I can see the hope underneath it.
“Wyatt, that’s really kind.” I keep my voice warm but clear. “But my situation is… complicated right now. I’m trying to figure some things out with my husband.”
“Your husband?” His eyebrows rise. “I thought - Junie said-”
“It’s complicated. But I appreciate the offer. Truly.”
He nods, accepting it gracefully. “Fair enough. The offer for business advice stands, though. Anytime you want to talk soil composition, I’m your guy.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
After he leaves, I stand in the greenhouse for a moment, thinking about how easy it would be to start fresh with someone uncomplicated. Someone who hasn’t hurt me. But that’s not what I want, not yet, anyway. Not while I’m still figuring out what I do want.
When I finally make it back to the farmhouse, exhausted and frustrated from the Henderson calls, Logan is sitting on the porch, turning a small piece of wood over in his hands.
“Remind me why I do weddings,” I say, dropping onto the step beside him.
“You love wedding season. You told me once it’s when you feel most useful.”
I blink at him. “I said that?”