Chapter 12
Wren
The air feels different now. It’s heavy, charged. A few hours ago, the sun was shining and flags were flapping in the spring breeze as we gathered on a day of remembrance.
Memorial Day in Silo Bay has always been sacred.
The day starts early with a high school marching band leading polished antique tractors and horses in special tack down Main Street.
Floats carry local businesses and organizations as kids ride their bicycles decorated in red, white, and blue, and spectators follow behind as the parade marches to the cemetery at the edge of town, where we gather, shoulder to shoulder in reverent silence around a stage.
Each year, a different speaker leads the ceremony, reflecting on the holiday’s significance before honoring our local heroes.
A lump formed in my throat when Jett’s name was called.
Standing stoic in his crisply ironed dress uniform, he accepted the crowd’s applause as they thanked him and his fellow veterans for their service.
I was in my third year of college when Mom let it slip that Jett had enlisted in the Army.
A part of me wondered if this was always his plan.
Did he think I wouldn’t have stood by him?
It ate at me for weeks. He chose not to trust me with his future, and it was my turn to let him go.
Or maybe if I had received the letter they hid from me, everything would’ve been different.
As angry as I was with him, deep down, a part of me knows I would’ve waited.
I would’ve still wanted what we always had.
My eyes trailed over him, taking in his hardened expression and the haunted darkness in his eyes from years at war.
Even with the weight of that, he looked incredibly handsome in his uniform, the medals pinned above his heart.
A wave of pride and admiration spread through me, acknowledging his status as a true hero to our town and country.
By late morning, the town had shifted into celebration mode.
Every Memorial Day, Drummond Farms hosts a barbecue for friends and family, extending the invitation to anyone who works for us and their families. My dad manned the grill with some help while Nate kept the kegs tapped and cold.
Half the town must’ve drifted in and out of our backyard, paper plates sagging under burgers, cold salads, and Grandma’s famous apple pie. The woman spends the entire week preparing as many pies as she can, and they’re always first come, first served.
The pool stayed full all afternoon, with shrieks of kids cannonballing and laughter as conversation and music filled our backyard. I dipped in the pool too. The cool water eased some of the tension in my shoulders while cooling me off from the unusually hot Ohio weather.
It felt good to be. No hiding or pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
I didn’t feel the need to be on like I had to in LA with paparazzi floating around every party I attended.
I shared my whole life in front of the cameras.
They came home with me, followed me on dates and outings, and spent the workday with me.
Not today. I got to be Wren Drummond, small-town girl and daughter of a farmer.
But around six, the skies darkened in that familiar Ohio way, announcing the presence of a spring thunderstorm.
Kids left the pool, getting wrapped in towels as their parents ushered them to their cars.
Our farmhands helped us pack up and tear down anything that might blow away.
Dad begged me to stay at his house. He said our spring storms have only gotten worse over the years, and they’ve become more unpredictable, and he’d feel better knowing I was with him with access to a basement.
But I assured him I’d be fine. That I had some work to catch up on and I’d keep an eye on the sky.
If it got too bad, I’d come up to the house.
With a reluctant sigh, he let me go. I'm an adult, after all.
That brings me here.
Sitting in a rickety rocking chair on my tiny porch, a whiskey sour sweating in my hand.
The air’s thicker, cooler, that strange calm before a storm breaks wide open.
As distant thunder rumbles, I tilt my head against the wooden chair, sipping my whiskey and welcoming the warmth of it, enjoying the way it mixes with the steady day-long buzz I've got.
A smile stretches across my face as I think about my life since I came back.
For the first time since moving home, I’ve found a rhythm.
I spend the weekdays working on Hannah’s Haven, fielding emails and requests, planting in her gardens, and promoting the business on social media.
I’ve been taking longer breaks in the afternoons to help Grams prepare food for our farmhands.
I’m nowhere near the cook she is—or Mom was—so she usually has me sit and watch her to learn, but I always make sure to do the dishes.
Every morning, I visit Julie at Shoreline Sips for my morning matcha. Yes, I drive ten minutes into town for a matcha latte. It’s too good to pass up.
I listen as the wind whips past, rattling the old screen door against its latch, and I sip from my tumbler, watching the skies open as sheets of rain fall from the heavens. For the tiniest second, I let myself imagine that everything is calm. No demons haunting my nightmares.
But the peace is short-lived as my phone buzzes on the wooden table next to me.