Page 7 of Crumbling Truth
Theo
Despitethedryhumorin how she said it, I almost fumbled my fork.
Aside from Oliver and my parents, I hadn’t spoken to anyone about the events leading up to my abrupt move to Asheville. No matter how close my mother might be to the woman across the table, I couldn’t imagine she’d given Esther any details about it, either.
Before I could respond, she grimaced, the expression almost comical set against her beautiful features. She was stunning, really, so different from the elderly widow I’d imagined living out there in the guest house that I was still in shock. With her long black hair falling halfway down her back, those beautiful moonlit eyes, and flawless, glowing skin, she was about as far from an old lady as she could possibly be.
I figured she must be somewhere around thirty, maybe a couple years past. Petite and curvy, she’d barely reached my shoulder as we crossed the distance between the houses. Even dressed casually in a t-shirt, there was something calm andcollected about her, a self-possession that made her seem wise beyond her years.
Christ, she was young to be a widow. I’d immediately discarded Ollie’s comment about her killing her husband, but I wondered what the hell had happened to start a rumor like that.
She was right, though—we represented two separate eras of Spruce Hill legend, apparently. The difference was that no one brought up my history, not anymore, and here I was, wishing she’d bring up hers.
Not so I could pry, but because I wanted to know what was lurking behind her quiet beauty. Gorgeous or not, she struck me as a little too solemn, a little too serious.
Those lips had looked so sweet when they curved into an unconscious smile only moments before, but now they were pursed and tight. It was a harsh contrast to the rest of her body, soft and generously rounded.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was…indelicate.”
I snorted at the word and shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about the past any more than she probably wanted to talk about her dead husband, but I didn’t want her to feel bad about bringing it up, either.
“Nothing to apologize for. Tell me about your food truck. How did you get into that? Did you always want to own a bakery?”
“Well. No,” she admitted, flashing me a sheepish grin. “I like baking. When I was a kid, my mother was always making something or other for me to bring to birthday parties or on field trips. She didn’t want me to feel like I was missing out. I never intended to make a living from it, though. My degree is in math.”
It was a little ridiculous how suddenly fascinated I was by this woman. “I guess baking involves a fair amount of math, huh?”
She shrugged. “Like I said, I enjoy numbers. I had no real plans for what to do after college. When my husband died, I started a tiny little baking business on the side, mostly justword of mouth. I didn’t realize how much demand there was out there for things made in a completely nut-free home by someone who knows about cross-contamination. Overhead is crazy for an actual bakery, and renting kitchen space doesn’t really give me control over what allergens are present in the facility, hence the truck. I love the freedom it gives me, so I’m sticking with it.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, leaning toward her slightly. “So you met my mother through your math classes?”
“Yes, she was my academic advisor and taught quite a few of my courses. She encouraged me to go into teaching, but that was never my passion. We compromised and she got me into an accelerated program where I got both my bachelor’s and master’s with just one extra year of college.”
“So you’re a brainiac, like my mom.” I grinned at that.
“I guess so.” A tiny smile curled her lip, then it faded as she went on. “After Steve’s death, I was getting ready to sell the condo and she must’ve heard about it from somebody in town, because the next thing I knew, she was offering up the guest house.”
“Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”
“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with myself, and your mother encouraged me to use some money from the sale of the condo to start the truck. My baking orders were taking off, so it was the next logical step.”
In a sudden flash of clarity, I could see it, the friendship between Esther and my mother. This woman was clever and bright and clearly driven, all things Mom appreciated, but underneath the capable exterior that would've drawn my mother to her in the first place, there was also an air of loneliness.
I saw it because I’d experienced the same thing, and I was sure my mother saw it, too. She was too perceptive to miss it. If she’d helped to ease that wound for Esther, I was happy for themboth. I knew firsthand how it felt to trudge through the mire alone.
Of course, Esther herself raised a brow at my sudden silence and I got the impression she probably didn’t give a shit about my opinion. I cleared my throat and flashed a smile, though she looked equally unimpressed with that.
“So,” I said, searching for a safe thread of conversation, “where’s the truck now?”
“I park it at Mr. Ankarberg’s plaza most of the time, though your parents don’t mind me parking it in the driveway when I need to. I try to limit that so the neighbors don’t complain.”
“People complain?”
She lifted a shoulder. “The name isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. My parents hate it.”
Something in the way she said it convinced me she didn’t want to discuss her family, so I just nodded and we fell into a less awkward silence as we ate our meal. All the while, I wondered how much she knew about my family’s past, whether my mother had told her anything about why I left. Now that I knew a bit of Esther’s history, it seemed like she was a kindred spirit. In those odd, silvery-green eyes, I saw the kind of pain that resonated inside me, and somehow I knew she’d understand if I confessed everything to her then and there.
Fortunately, common sense—or self-preservation—kicked back in before I could lay those years of conflict before a complete stranger.
