12. Billie
Billie
T uesday morning in Willowbrook meant errands, which also meant exposure to the town's gossip network whether you wanted it or not.
I'd barely made it through the door of Marie's bakery before being cornered by three different people who wanted to hear about Gage's recovery "from a medical perspective. "
"I'm afraid I can't share his medical details with anyone without his permission," I said for the third time, plastering that fake but hopefully convincing smile on my face that generally came with whenever someone thought they had the right to ask me that question.
The birth story had already grown in the telling.
According to Mrs. Patterson, Gage had delivered Barrett single-handedly while suffering from multiple life-threatening injuries.
According to Tom Fletcher, he'd performed emergency surgery with nothing but a pocket knife and determination.
I was starting to think by Friday, the story would involve him delivering triplets during a natural disaster.
"Such a blessing that he was there when Delaney needed him," Marie said, sliding a box of pastries across the counter. "Providence, really. All those years away, and he comes home just in time to help bring that precious baby into the world."
I nodded and smiled, accepting the pastries I definitely didn't need while trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest at the pride in her voice. The whole town was talking about Gage like he was a hero, like his return was something to be celebrated instead of questioned.
"How's his recovery going?" Mrs. Patterson asked, leaning in with the enthusiasm of someone who lived for medical updates. "Such a blessing that he was there when Delaney needed him. Real hero, that boy."
"I'm afraid I can't share his medical information," I said automatically, the professional response rolling off my tongue.
"But I'll pass on your concern so he knows you're thinking of him," I added to soften the blow and what would no doubt be the continued pressure for information if I didn't try to avoid it.
"Of course you can't, Billie dear, you just ignore all these gossips and keep up the good work! Always knew that boy had good instincts," Marie beamed. "Remember when he organized that fundraiser for the Miller family after their barn burned down? Couldn't have been more than fourteen."
"Of course, he always was a bit wild," Mrs. Patterson said with a knowing look. "Remember when he crashed his father's car into that oak tree? Fifteen years old and thought he was invincible."
I felt my spine stiffen automatically. "That was an accident," I said before I could stop myself. "He was hurt badly. Could have died."
"Oh, I know, dear. Just saying he always had a tendency toward... dramatic gestures." Mrs. Patterson's tone carried the faint disapproval of someone who'd never forgotten a teenage mistake. "Hope all that reckless behavior is behind him now that he's got family counting on him."
"His reckless behavior?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "You mean like stepping up to deliver a baby when no one else was there to help?"
Marie and Mrs. Patterson both looked surprised at my defensive tone, and I realized I'd just revealed far more personal investment than any medical professional should have.
"The other Farrington boys must be so relieved to have their brother back," Marie said quickly, clearly trying to smooth over the sudden tension. "Blake mentioned they've been searching for him for some time now."
Searching. The word hit me like a reminder of how he'd walked away.
"Well, give him our best," Mrs. Patterson said as I gathered my things, though her tone was cooler now. "Tell him the whole town's talking about what he did."
I couldn't decide if she meant helping Delaney deliver her baby, or what had happened when he was a teenager.
I'd been away just long enough that I'd forgotten about this part of small town life.
Being suddenly refreshed on it now wasn't exactly the best thing that had happened to me since I'd returned.
I made my escape before anyone could launch into more detailed medical inquiries, but the conversation followed me as I continued my errands.
At the pharmacy, at the bank, at the grocery store, it was the same story.
Gage's heroic delivery had captured the town's imagination, and his return was being treated like the homecoming of a prodigal son.
By the time I reached the old doctor's office that Blake was turning into a gallery space, my professional composure was starting to fray around the edges.
"You look like you've been through a war zone," Blake observed as I collapsed into the chair across from the dusty desk they'd set up in a corner with plans laid across the surface. "Let me guess. The Willowbrook information network has been in full force today."
"Everyone wants updates on his recovery. Everyone has an opinion about Providence and blessings and heroic family genes." I slumped back in my chair, suddenly exhausted. "I've been defending him all morning without even realizing it."
Blake's eyebrows rose. "Defending him how?"
I thought about it. Mrs. Patterson had made some comment about hoping his "wandering days" were behind him, and I'd immediately jumped in to explain that some people needed time and space to heal from trauma.
Tom Fletcher had wondered aloud whether Gage was "reliable enough" to be around family, and I'd found myself listing his improved pain management and commitment to his recovery plan.
"I keep correcting people who question his character," I admitted. "People who act like his leaving means he's fundamentally flawed instead of someone who was hurt and scared and didn't know how to ask for help."
Blake studied my face with the uncomfortable perception of someone who knew me too well. "Sounds like you're starting to see his side of the story."
"I'm seeing the medical facts. Trauma responses, survival mechanisms, the kind of psychological damage that happens when children are manipulated by authority figures." I was using clinical language to distance myself from the emotional implications, but Blake wasn't buying it.
"Right. Completely professional assessment."
"Exactly."
"So it has nothing to do with the way you've been smiling every time someone mentions his name?"
I started to deny it, then stopped. Because she was right. Every story about his heroism with Barrett, every mention of his improvement, every piece of evidence that he was trying to heal and stay and be part of his family again made something warm and hopeful unfurl in my chest.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" I said quietly.
"Depends. How much trouble do you want to be in?"
Before I could answer, the bell above the gallery door chimed, and Emma burst in with the kind of energy that usually meant she had news to share.
"Did you hear about the swimming hole house?" she asked without preamble, settling into the chair beside me with dramatic flair.
"That old haunted place up on the hill? What about it?" Blake asked.
"Someone bought it. Cash offer, closed in two days. Completely anonymous purchase through lawyers." Emma leaned forward conspiratorially. "Word is they're planning major renovations. Bringing in contractors from the city, full restoration project."
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
The swimming hole house. The place where Gage and I had spent countless afternoons dreaming about our future, making plans for the life we'd thought we'd build together.
The place where he'd kissed me for the first time, where I'd believed with absolute certainty that we'd grow old together.
"Any idea who bought it?" I asked, though part of me already suspected the answer.
"Complete mystery. But whoever it is has serious money and serious intentions. Talk is they want to restore it to period authenticity, bring it back to what it was supposed to be."
"If it's an anonymous buyer, how does anyone know that?" Blake asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't know how town gossip works, do you?"
She squinted at me in suspicion and I almost wanted to laugh.
"At some point someone will have said 'oh I wonder if they'll keep the period features,' and then it grows from there."
"Huh." Blake frowned again, her eyes seeming to focus on something in the distance. "So what you're saying is as long as I start it off with a subtle suggestion, I could get people talking about absolutely anything."
That hadn't been what I'd expected her to say.
"Ooooh, damn," Emma whistled. "You know this is the moment you created a super villain, right? You just became part of her origin story."
I looked between the two of them. "You're both ridiculous."
As they laughed, I tried not to think about the old house we'd spent so many summers staring at and creating an imaginary future where neither of us acknowledged that we were living there together.
That we were building a make-believe family, the tips of our fingers brushing together as we lay in the cool grass dreaming of a life that would never be.
My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn't name.
Hope, maybe. Or fear. Because there was only one person I could think of who would care enough about that house to invest in its restoration.
Only one person who might see it as something worth saving instead of just another piece of Willowbrook real estate.
"Interesting timing," Blake said, her eyes fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Gage comes home after eleven years, and suddenly someone with cash and renovation plans buys the house where you two used to spend all your time. Could be a coincidence."
Could be. But nothing about Gage's return had felt like coincidence so far.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on anything except the possibility that Gage had bought our house.
Our house. The place where we'd carved our initials in the old oak tree, where we'd planned our wedding when we were eleven and thought love was simple.
Where we'd promised each other forever and meant it with our whole hearts.
If he'd really bought it, if he was planning to restore it... what did that mean? Was it about us, about some fantasy of reclaiming what we'd lost? Or was it just a practical decision by someone who needed a place to live and had enough money to buy what he wanted?
By evening, I was wound so tight with speculation and hope and fear that I could barely sit still. I found myself driving toward the ranch without consciously deciding to go there, pulled by a need to see him that was stronger than my professional boundaries.
Booker met me as I pulled up my car outside of his house, directing me to one of the guest cottages that Gage had moved to for some privacy.
I found him on the cottage porch, a beer in his hand and his casted leg propped on a small table.
He looked peaceful for the first time since he'd been back, like the privacy and space had allowed him to finally breathe.
"This is a surprise," he said as I climbed out of my car. "Everything okay?"
"I heard about the swimming hole house," I said without preamble, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. "Someone bought it."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could see something shift in his expression. Not guilt, exactly, but acknowledgment.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I did."
The simple confirmation hit me like a physical blow. I'd been hoping I was wrong, hoping it was just coincidence and speculation. But there it was. He'd bought our house. The place where we'd fallen in love, where we'd promised each other everything.
"Why?" The question came out smaller than I'd intended.
He set down his beer, his expression growing serious. "Because it needs someone who understands what it could be. Someone who remembers what it was supposed to represent."
"And what was it supposed to represent?"
"Hope," he said quietly. "Possibility. The idea that broken things could be made beautiful again if someone cared enough to do the work."
I stared at him, trying to read the meaning behind his words. Was he talking about the house, or was he talking about us?
"Gage..."
"I'm not asking for anything from you," he said quickly. "I'm not assuming that buying the house means anything beyond what it is. A place that needs restoration by someone who has the skills and the motivation to do it right."
But the careful way he was watching my face, the hope I could see lurking in his storm-gray eyes, told a different story.
"You bought our house," I said again, still trying to process the magnitude of what he'd done.
"I bought a house that's been sitting empty for years, waiting for someone to see its potential."
The distinction felt important, like he was giving me permission to interpret his actions however I needed to. Like he was offering hope without demanding I reciprocate it.
"Are you planning to live there?" I asked.
"Eventually. Once I can manage stairs and don't need daily medical supervision."
"That could be months."
"I have time."
I have time. The simple statement carried so much weight. Time to heal, time to build, time to figure out what kind of life he wanted to create in Willowbrook. Time to see if the girl he'd left behind might be willing to be part of it.
"I should go," I said, though my feet didn't seem to want to move.
"Billie," he called as I turned toward my car.
"I meant what I said. I'm not asking for anything from you.
I'm not assuming my being here changes anything between us.
But I want you to know... coming home, seeing my family again, working with you.
.. it's made me remember what it felt like to believe in possibility. "
The vulnerability in his voice nearly undid me. This was the boy I'd once known, emerging from underneath years of guilt and self-punishment. Open, hopeful, willing to risk his heart even when he wasn't sure of the outcome.
"I'll see you Wednesday," I said instead of responding to the emotion in his voice.
As I drove back toward town, I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said. About possibility, about believing in things that might never happen but were beautiful enough to hope for anyway.
About the house we'd once dreamed of sharing, and the man who'd cared enough to save it.