Chapter 13
Clara
Thatcher doesn’t talk much as he drives us down the other side of the mountain, but that’s okay—because Willow could hold a conversation with a brick wall and somehow make it laugh.
She sits in the passenger seat like she belongs there, one hand resting on her belly, the other gesturing animatedly as she points things out through the windshield.
“That ridge right there?” she says. “Best view in the fall. Like, stupid gorgeous. I cried the first time I saw it. Thatcher made fun of me for weeks.”
Thatcher’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“You did cry,” he rumbles, eyes on the road. “Like a Hallmark commercial. And I teased, I did not make fun. But only because I love you like crazy, Baby Girl.”
Willow gasps, scandalized. “It was a very moving scene. Don’t act like you didn’t get misty-eyed when you saw the moose that one time.”
“I did not,” Thatcher says automatically.
“You did,” Willow sings.
He grunts. “That was just some wind in my eye.”
I sit in the backseat, wrapped in Greyson’s flannel like it’s armor and comfort at the same time, and I don’t speak much.
Not because I can’t—but because I’m trying not to let the ache in my chest show on my face.
I keep thinking of this morning.
Greyson’s cold voice.
The way he didn’t look back.
The way he handed me a practiced goodbye like it was a receipt.
And then Willow appeared at his cabin door like a ray of sunshine with a box of food and a truth-telling smile, and the story I’d built in my head cracked.
Not completely.
But enough to make me want answers.
Willow glances back at me. “You okay back there, Clara?”
I force a smile. “I’m okay.”
Thatcher’s eyes flick up to the rearview mirror for half a second—sharp, assessing.
Like he knows I’m not okay.
Like he knows exactly why.
Then he returns his gaze to the road and pretends he didn’t see anything.
Which I appreciate.
Willow keeps chatting, filling the truck with warmth.
She tells me about the sawmill, about the Lunchroom she runs, about the townspeople who treat her like family.
She talks like she loves her life out here in a way that makes my chest feel strange—tight and hopeful and wistful all at once.
And something about her accent tugs at my attention.
It’s not Maine.
Not even close.
So when we finally pull into a gravel lot beside a long building that smells faintly of pine and sawdust, I ask before I can overthink it.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Willow snorts like I just asked if water is wet. “Nah. I’m from Jersey.”
I blink. “Jersey? Like… New Jersey?”
She grins. “Yup. Like Taylor ham vs. pork roll New Jersey.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Okay, yeah. Jersey.”
Thatcher makes a sound that could be amusement or resignation.
“She won’t shut up about it.”
“Excuse you,” Willow says, offended on behalf of the entire Garden State. “I’m culturally rich.”
“You’re loud,” he counters.
Willow points at him. “And you love that about me.”
Thatcher’s response is a grumble that sounds suspiciously like agreement.
“I love everything about you,” he whispers and kisses her temple.
And that’s when I realize something that makes my throat tighten.
They’re solid.
Real. Comfortable.
Not performing for anyone.
It’s nice.
And it makes me wish I had anything remotely close to that in my life.
We climb out of the truck, and the mud covering the ground inside the sawmill is real.
I almost lose a Croc.
“Whoops. Careful,” she snickers and leads me inside.
The Lunchroom is attached to the mill, warm and bustling even in the late morning.
There are a few long tables, mismatched chairs, a counter with pastries under a glass dome, and a chalkboard menu written in cheerful, messy handwriting.
It feels like the kind of place that feeds people who work hard.
The kind of place where nobody cares what brand your coat is, only whether you’re hungry.
Willow ushers me into a booth like she’s known me longer than an hour.
“Sit. You look like you need calories and gossip.”
“That might be accurate,” I admit.
Thatcher nods at Willow, then at me.
“I’m gonna check on the guys,” he says, and Willow waves him off like she owns the building—which, judging by the way everyone nods at her, and the fact the place is called McCrae Lumber & Sawmill—she basically does.
As soon as he’s gone, Willow slides into the booth across from me and sets a plate down like she’s presenting an offering.
A breakfast burrito the size of my forearm.
It’s smothered in something that smells like salsa verde and melted pepper jack cheese—and maybe a little bit of heaven.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Willow beams. “Eat.”
I pick it up and take one bite.
And I actually moan.
Loudly.
In public.
I freeze mid-chew, eyes widening, but Willow just laughs like she’s delighted.
“Oh my God,” I say again around the mouthful. “This is amazing.”
Willow preens. “Thank you. Thatcher says food is my love language.”
I take another bite and feel my whole body unclench for the first time since the storm.
Warm food, safe space, a woman across from me who looks at me like I’m not being evaluated.
“Okay,” I say after I swallow. “How did you end up here? You don’t exactly give ‘accidentally wandered into rural Maine’ vibes.”
Willow’s grin softens. She leans back, fingers lacing over her belly.
“It really was by accident,” she says lightly.
Then she sighs, and the lightness shifts into something more honest.
“Really. I left a bad situation and found myself in Woodhaven kind of by mistake.”
My eyes narrow. “By mistake? Really?”
Willow nods.
“Yep. Wrong guy. Wrong turn. Bad weather. Long story. I didn’t know anything about this place. I didn’t even know it existed.”
She glances out the window, smile turning a little dreamy.
“But I swear… it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Something warm and painful stirs in my chest.
I grin back because I can’t help it.
“I get that,” I say quietly. “Sometimes the worst days lead you somewhere better.”
Willow studies me for a beat—too perceptive. Too kind.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Now your turn. How did you end up on Greyson’s mountain in a thunderstorm, Clara Belle?”
My stomach flips at the sound of his name.
I take another bite like I can chew around the truth.
“Well,” I start carefully. “-I just left my apartment. Walked out on the wrong man—”
“Wrong man?”
“Yeah, it was a rough night.”
Willow’s eyebrows lift. “Define rough.”
“I caught my fiancé cheating,” I say flatly.
Willow’s eyes widen. “Oh.”
“Yep. He was boinking his secretary in my apartment, right on top of this awful marble kitchen island he made me buy!”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope! And he was such an ass about that island. Freaked out if I didn’t constantly wipe it clean.”
“What a fuckhead!”
“Yeah, he was a total fuckhead,” I say, and the word feels right. “So I left.”
“Well, Clara, that’s not rough,” Willow says, voice fierce. “That’s you being a queen.”
I choke a little on my burrito. “I don’t know about queen.”
Willow points at me. “A queen.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky.
“Okay, so how’d you find Woodhaven?”
“Oh, well…” I hesitate, because here’s the part where I either sound insane or I don’t get the answers I need.
Willow waits, patient.
I take a breath. “So, a while ago, I saw this artist online.”
Willow’s face shifts—tiny, almost imperceptible. But I catch it.
Interest.
Recognition.
I press on.
“His work. Willow trees. Sunsets. Etched into leather and wood and iron.”
Willow’s eyes go wide like she’s watching fireworks.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, delighted.
My pulse jumps. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Willow presses a hand to her chest like she’s about to faint dramatically.
“Wow, Clara! You know, Greyson had nothing to do with those social media accounts. That was all me.”
I blink. “Wait. What?”
She nods quickly, cheeks flushing.
“I set them up.” She laughs, half proud, half guilty.
“Thatcher had Grey make me boots at first. And a coat. And then little things here and there, and I loved them so much I started posting. Just little videos, you know? Close-ups. A few shots of the work. He let me watch him work sometimes, and I filmed it. But I didn’t think it would blow up. ”
My mouth falls open.
“You mean,” I start slowly. “You didn’t know?”
Willow blinks. “Know what?”
“That he’s famous,” I say, because I can’t stop myself. “Like really famous. They call him the Lumberjack Artist.”
Willow’s eyes widen again—this time in a horror-movie way.
“They call him what?”
I nod. “It’s everywhere. The willows. The sunsets. People are obsessed.”
Willow’s face drains just a little. “Oh my God,” she murmurs. “Did I do this?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. I mean, he was kinda famous before. But those accounts definitely helped with younger people.”
“So, you found him because of me?”
Willow exhales slowly, staring at the table like she’s seeing all her cute little posts as potential crimes.
I swallow, because the truth is sitting in my throat like a stone.
“Well, I might have, um, used my connections,” I admit, voice tight.
Willow’s head snaps up. “Connections? Girl, are you in the mob?”
I wince. “No! But my parents are kind of a big deal.”
Willow’s expression flickers into curiosity. “Okay?”
“And they use this security company,” I say, because there’s no way to make this sound normal. “A team really. And I—” I swallow hard. “I know it’s an invasion of privacy, but I just needed to meet him. I needed something real.”
Willow goes quiet.
Not judging. Not angry.
Just listening.
I talk anyway, because once the dam breaks, the words pour out.
I tell her about Geoffrey—the dinners with his coworkers, the way I always felt like I was being sized up and found lacking.
The way he’d make little comments about food and clothes and my health that weren’t really about health at all and were more about the size of my ass.