Chapter 2 - The Cracks in the Stone
By Tuesday, Nathan was convinced he had made a catastrophic error. Evie had rearranged his spice cabinet, organized the cellar by "joyfulness" rather than vintage, and had begun playing bluegrass music that echoed through the ventilation system.
"Mr. Mercer," she called out as he tried to sneak past the kitchen toward his study. "Your coffee."
"I have coffee in my study."
"That mud you drink? No, you don't." She thrust a mug toward him.
He took it, ready to dump it in the sink, but the aroma stopped him. It was rich, dark, and hinted at cinnamon and something wild, like mountain laurel. He took a sip. It was perfect.
"I'm going to town," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "The produce in your pantry is sad. You've got onions that look like they've given up on life."
"There is a grocery delivery service," Nathan said, clutching his mug like a lifeline.
"Delivery people don't know a good tomato from a plastic ball," she scoffed. "I’m going to the farmers' market in Asheville. If you want anything, write it on the list on the fridge."
"I am not writing a list on my refrigerator like a college student."
"Suit yourself. Then you eat whatever I decide you need."
As she walked out, she paused by the foyer mirror, fixing her hair. She didn't check for stray hairs or vanity; she just looked at herself with a kind of sturdy, unbothered acceptance.
Nathan watched her go, then retreated to his study. He sat at his desk and pulled out the watch. 11:43. He wound it, a ritual that usually brought him a hollow sense of comfort. Today, the ticking felt loud, intrusive.
He opened the drawer to put the watch away, but his hand brushed against a bundle of letters—the last ones Claire had sent him from her retreat in the mountains. He had never been able to read them all the way through. They were too full of plans, too full of a future that had been incinerated on Hawthorne Ridge.
He stared at the handwriting, feeling the familiar, suffocating pressure in his chest. The fog outside seemed to thicken, pressing against the glass. He stood up, pacing the small room.
He needed to get rid of the cook. She was too loud, too chaotic, and entirely too observant.
He went to the kitchen to find the house manager, but instead found Evie back from the market. She was unpacking a box of peaches, their scent filling the room.
"They smell like summer," she said, not looking at him.
"They're out of season."
"They're from a greenhouse in the valley. They taste like the sun. You should try one."
"I don't like peaches."
"You don't like anything that doesn't remind you of your own misery," she said, her voice conversational.
Nathan felt his face heat up. "You are overstepping your professional boundaries."
"Professional boundaries are for people who aren't dying from the inside out," she replied, picking up a peach and holding it out. "You’ve spent seven years building a wall, Nathan. But walls don't keep the sorrow out. They just keep the light from getting in."
Nathan took the peach, his fingers brushing hers. She had rough skin, the hands of someone who worked for a living. He looked at the fruit, then at her.
"Why are you here, Evie? Really?"
She leaned against the counter, her expression softening. "Ruth is my godmother. She told me you were a good man who had forgotten how to breathe. I’m here because I don’t like to see good things go to waste."
"I am not a thing to be salvaged."
"Everyone is," she said.
She turned back to the counter, and Nathan walked away, the peach heavy in his hand. He went to his study and laid the fruit on his desk. He looked at the watch, then at the peach, then at the gray, suffocating wall of fog outside.
May you like
He took a bite of the peach.
It was sweet. It was vibrant. It was the taste of life, and for the first time in seven years, he didn't hate the flavor of it.
