Page 8 of Crumbling Truth
Esther refused to be waved off again when she rose to help me clear the table. “Even your mother lets me help with the dishes, you know,” she insisted.
“Fine, fine,” I muttered, joining her beside the sink.
We settled into an easy rhythm, her rinsing the dishes and me loading them into the dishwasher. Even with Esther joining me for the meal, we still had enough leftovers for two separatecontainers. I put one in the fridge and set the other on the counter for her to take home.
Strangely, when the time came to walk her out, I didn’t want her to leave.
“Will you be at any of the holiday events around town? With the food truck, I mean?”
Her moonbeam eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. “Some of them, yes. November is mostly business bookings and personal orders, but I’m scheduled for the tree lighting and then the Carolcade in December. This time of year gets pretty slow otherwise. Were you planning to go to those events while you’re in town?”
I grimaced, unable—or unwilling—to lie to her. “No, I wasn’t, but if I don’t go, certain Spruce Hill residents will be all over me for locking myself away and I’ll end up bullied into joining them for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“The horror,” she replied with a shudder.
Though I laughed, there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face when she said it. Either this woman was extraordinarily good at poker or she was as uneasy about being roped into socializing as I was. That suspicion touched something deep in my chest, another flash of connection between us.
“I’ll have to stop by and get some more baked goods,” I said, inwardly kicking myself for the stupid phrasing.
Esther didn’t seem to mind; she offered a smile, broader than any I’d seen from her so far, with the barest hint of a dimple appearing at one corner of her mouth. It hit me like a fist right in the center of my chest. She was stunning anyway, but that smile—shit, I hadn’t responded like this to a smile since high school. The reminder of where that particular smile had led crashed over me like a bucket of ice water.
“I’ll set something aside for you. I usually sell out in the afternoon,” she said, slipping her boots and jacket back on asI stood there and watched, my entire body practically frozen in place.
“Thank you,” I managed, though the words sounded a little hoarse. “For joining me tonight, I mean.”
“Have a good night, Theo.”
The simple words were uttered without much warmth, as though she’d sensed my withdrawal and accepted it as some sign of dismissal. Before I could even attempt to respond, she was walking along the paved path to the guest house. For a long moment, I stood there, watching the distance between us grow and wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, agreeing to come back here.
I was off-kilter, that was all. Under normal circumstances, I’d never have been so affected by a woman’s smile, so awkward at conversing with a stranger that I fumbled the conversation like I was thirteen again.
Beautiful or not, she probably wasn’t interested in me at all, and I damn well shouldn’t be interested in her, either.
Just after she disappeared through the door to the guest house—without a glance back toward me—my phone chimed with a text from my mom. I snorted at her request for a photo of me and Toni, then let myself back into the house. The feline in question wove between my legs as I strode toward the kitchen, poured myself a glass of my father’s second-best scotch, and dropped down into a chair, thinking about Esther.
I realized my mother had never referred to the woman’s age, only that she was a widow. In fact, it seemed odd now just how emphatically she’d stressed that part. I’d barely even paid attention to Esther’s name, but now I had to admit I hadn’t been paying close enough attention to the rest of the conversation, either.
The next time I spoke to my parents, we were going to discuss what constituted pertinent information about my current living arrangements.
By the time I finished my scotch, I decided Oliver also owed me an explanation and hit call on his contact in my phone.
“Hey, man, miss me already?”
“Ollie, what the fuck?”
For a beat, he was silent, then he started laughing. “You met Esther,” he guessed.
“Yes, though technically we met when I stopped at her food truck on my way into town. Why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t an old lady?”
“I thought this way was more fun.”
I sighed loudly enough for him to hear it over the phone. “You owe me.”
“Happy to pay up,” he replied. “Let me guess—you want intel on the beauty living in your backyard?”
I didn’t dignify that with a response, just asked, “Is she from Spruce Hill?” Surely I’d remember Esther if she’d grown up around here.
“Nah, she’s from Oakville. Came here for college.”
