Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Abilene
Monday
This is surreal.
That’s the only word that fits as I sit at my kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that’s already gone lukewarm, watching a woman I haven’t seen since I was barely old enough to form real memories smile at me as if no time has passed at all.
Mara.
My aunt.
I know that’s who she is because I’ve been told so. Because there are photographs, sun-faded and curled at the edges, of her holding me on her hip when I was small, both of us laughing at something outside the frame.
Because my mother’s handwriting mentioned her just often enough to leave a shape where she should’ve been.
But memory-wise? She’s almost a stranger.
And yet she feels warm. Open. Easy in my space in a way that should feel invasive but somehow doesn’t.
She cradles her tea between both hands, inhaling the steam like it’s a luxury.
“I forgot how good real honey smells,” she says. “Not the grocery store kind. This smells like summer.”
“That’s… kind of my whole thing,” I say, half smiling.
She laughs softly, eyes crinkling. “Your mother used to say you’d end up with something alive. Plants, animals, anything you could nurture.”
The mention of my mother lands gently and heavily at the same time.
“You were close?” I say.
Mara nods. “Closer than anyone. More distant than anyone too, some days.”
There’s an honesty in that that makes me relax just a little.
“So,” she says finally, setting her mug down. “You were what… eleven? The last time I saw you?”
“Twelve,” I say. “I remember your earrings more than anything else. Big gold hoops.”
She laughs outright. “Oh, wow. Those were tragic.”
“I thought you were glamorous,” I admit. “You smelled of oranges. And cigarettes.”
“Also tragic,” she says, delighted. “But yes. That sounds like me.”
I watch her as she talks. The way she gestures with her hands. The way her smile comes easily. She looks nothing like my mother, and somehow, exactly like her.
We talk.
Really talk.
The kind where the tea goes cold, and you forget to refill it because you’re too busy circling the shape of a life you only half-know.
“So where did you go?” I ask finally. “After you left.”
Mara smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Depends on the year.”
“Start anywhere,” I say.
She stirs her tea even though the honey’s already dissolved. “Seattle first. I thought cities would fix me. They did not.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That checks out.”
She grins. “I waited tables. Worked retail. Tried to convince myself I wanted a desk job. I didn’t. I lasted six months before I felt like I was suffocating.”
“And after that?”
“Portland. San Diego. Phoenix for a bit.” She shrugs. “I was very good at arriving. Terrible at staying.”
“What made you leave?” I ask softly.
She considers that. “Fear. Restlessness. The belief that if I kept moving, nothing could catch me.”
My chest tightens at that, though I’m not sure why.
“And the people?” I ask. “The relationships?”
Her mouth quirks. “Educational.”
I tilt my head. “That sounds like code.”
“It is,” she admits lightly. “Some were kind. Some were selfish. Some loved me the way people love ideas instead of people.” She meets my gaze. “I learned a lot. Mostly what I don’t want.”
I nod slowly. That makes more sense than anything else she’s said.
“And you?” she asks. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to,” I say, then wince. “That came out wrong.”
She shakes her head. “No. It came out honest.”
I trace the rim of my mug with my thumb. “Grandmother raised me. She taught me the bees. Took the stings like a rite of passage. Said you don’t get to work with living things unless you’re willing to get hurt by them.”
Mara smiles softly. “That sounds like her.”
“I hated it at first,” I admit. “I cried every time I got stung. But eventually I learned how to move slower. Quieter. How to listen.”
“Bees will teach you that,” she says. “Or punish you until you do.”
“Exactly.” I smile despite myself. “Now they’re… grounding. When everything else feels off, they’re still doing what they’ve always done.”
She watches me with pride. Or regret. Maybe both. “What do you do with the honey?”
“I have a little stall at the market. Sweet Haven Honey. It’s become a business for me.”
“And the fire?” she asks gently.
My shoulders tense. “That was different. Scary.” I hesitate. “Things feel unsettled lately. Like the valley’s holding its breath.”
Mara nods slowly. “It does that sometimes.”
“Does it?” I ask.
“You’ve built something real here, Abilene. That matters.”
When I finally work up the nerve, I bring up the letters.
Carefully. Like they might bite if I move too fast.
“I’ve been getting messages,” I say. “Letters. From someone who says they knew Mom. And Grandma.”
Mara’s hand pauses mid-stir.
“Letters?” she echoes lightly.
“They’re not… casual,” I continue, choosing each word with care. “They talk about the fire. About things that were kept afterward. About people who lied. People who ran. About parts of my family’s story that don’t line up with what I was told.”
I don’t mention the way the words crawled under my skin the first time I read them. Or how the handwriting felt intentional.
Her expression doesn’t harden, but it does smooth over.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says gently. “That old mess.”
Mess.
The word lands wrong.
“They said there are things my father never knew,” I say quietly. “Or pretended not to know. That there are pieces missing. That my grandmother kept things after the fire.”
Mara reaches across the table before I finish, squeezing my hand with practiced warmth. “People were scared back then. Everyone was. Fires have a way of scrambling the truth.”
“It didn’t feel small,” I say. “It still doesn’t.”
Her thumb rubs slow, soothing circles against my knuckles. “It wasn’t small at the time,” she agrees. “But it doesn’t need to stay big now.”
I search her face. “You’re not worried?”
“No,” she says easily. Too easily. “I’m really not. Families were complicated then. Secrets, misunderstandings, people trying to protect each other in all the wrong ways.”
That doesn’t sit right.
The letters didn’t sound like misunderstandings. They sounded like intent.
“There’s nothing you need to fix,” she adds quickly, as if she can feel my thoughts sharpening. “Nothing you need to solve. Digging up old wounds doesn’t heal them, Abilene.”
She smiles, warm and convincing. “What matters is that we’re here now. Together.”
Together.
I nod, because I don’t yet know how to push back without breaking everything fragile between us.
My insides stay unsettled anyway.
Mara must sense it, because her smile shifts. Brightening, turning mischievous, flipping a switch. “Alright. Enough heavy stuff.”
“I—”
“You look like you need a distraction,” she says, already standing. “And you cannot reconnect with your mysterious aunt and not go out for a drink.”
I blink. “I don’t really—”
“Too late,” she says cheerfully, grabbing her jacket. “We’re going out.”
And just like that, the questions are tucked away again. Unsolved, unacknowledged, still humming under my skin.
Waiting.
Somehow, an hour later, we’re stepping into The Silver Bit Tavern, warmth and noise spilling out to meet us.
Music hums low under conversation. Laughter bursts and fades. Glasses clink. The place smells of citrus, beer, and something fried that I can never quite identify but always recognize as comfort.
Mara lights up the second we cross the threshold.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Her shoulders loosen, her smile sharpens, her whole body shifting into a rhythm she knows by heart.
She slides onto a barstool, reclaiming old territory, flashing a grin at Riley behind the bar that’s equal parts invitation and challenge.
“Well,” she says brightly, leaning her elbows on the counter, “this place still knows how to pour a drink.”
Riley laughs, already reaching for a glass. “Depends who’s asking.”
Mara tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
I hover a few feet back, drink in hand, watching it unfold. The easy flirtation. The practiced timing. The way she listens just enough to make Riley feel interesting without ever giving too much of herself away.
It’s fascinating to watch her charm.
I take a slow sip of my drink and let my gaze wander the room, half-listening to their banter. Familiar faces dot the space. Locals, ranch hands, a couple from the market. People who know me, or think they do.
Mara laughs again, touching Riley’s arm lightly, and I feel that same strange pull in my chest.
She’s warm. Magnetic. Easy to like.
And yet…
I think of the letters. Of the careful wording. Of the way the truth felt folded, not absent.
Of how Mara’s voice smoothed over the sharpest parts of my questions like she was sanding down splinters she didn’t want me to feel yet.
Or ever.
I watch her throw her head back in laughter, hair catching the light, and I can’t help wondering…
Does she know who sent them?
Does she know what my grandmother kept?
Or does she simply know that if she keeps moving, keeps smiling, keeps me distracted, I might stop asking?
The thought settles uncomfortably in my stomach.
Then the door opens.
I don’t hear it at first. I feel it.
A shift. Like the room subtly recalibrates around a new gravity.
I look up.
Marshall stands just inside the doorway. He pauses, scanning the room with that assessing calm of his.
Then his eyes find mine.