Chapter 5 - The Town That Talks in Whispers
Small towns don’t keep secrets; they just chew on them until all the flavor is gone and then pass them around again.
Within six months of our boys’ birth, everyone within thirty miles knew the story. They knew that Renee Carter, the girl who had been put out on Elm Street like yesterday’s trash, had given Luke Mercer three healthy, roaring sons in a single afternoon. Elijah, Owen, and Caleb. Three little boys with Luke’s wide, open smile and my dark, stubborn curls.
Meanwhile, Grant Hollis’s life was moving in a very different direction.
Natalie kept her ear to the ground, whether I wanted her to or not. Two years after our divorce, Grant had married Simone Whitaker, the twenty-four-year-old daughter of a wealthy car dealership owner. Diane Hollis had thrown a massive reception at the country club, bragging to anyone who would listen that the Hollis bloodline was finally back on track with a proper, pedigree girl from old money.
Except the nursery on Elm Street remained empty.
One year passed. Then two. Then three.
The whispers in the beauty parlors changed their tune. When Simone Hollis was seen leaving the downtown medical building in tears, people stopped whispering about me and started looking at Grant with tilted heads. Diane stopped holding court by the church entrance on Sunday mornings. She stopped bringing up the Pruden girl’s babies. And when Grant’s company lost two major commercial bids to Luke Mercer’s expanding electrical contracting firm, Grant began spending his Friday nights at the dark corner of the hotel bar downtown, nursing bourbon and complaining about his back.
Now, four years after the divorce, Carter’s Table had expanded into the old brick warehouse next door. We had forty tables, a private banquet room, and lines out the door every single evening. Luke had taken over the regional electrical contracts for the new hospital wing. We were prosperous, we were respected, and most importantly, our home was loud.
Our kitchen was never quiet. It smelled of vanilla, roasted chicken, spilled apple juice, and clean cedar shavings from Luke’s boots. The boys ran through the rooms like a pack of friendly wolves, their laughter shaking the walls Grant had claimed were too holy for noise.
And then came the cream-colored envelope.
Sitting at the kitchen table late that Tuesday night, with the boys finally sleeping upstairs and the catering orders organized for dawn, Luke looked across at me.
“He sent it to hurt you,” Luke said, his voice quiet, steady, and entirely free of jealousy. He knew who I was. He knew who I belonged to. “He knows Carter’s Table is the most successful restaurant in this county. He knows you’re on the chamber of commerce board. He sent that invitation because he wants to believe he still has power over your memories.”
“Look at what he wrote, Luke,” I said, tapping the back of the card. Front row reserved for Mrs. Renee Carter. “He’s remarrying Simone in a formal church renewal ceremony because their first wedding was a civil rushed job. He wants the whole town to see me sitting in the front row, watching him pretend to be a king.”
Luke stood up. He walked around the table, pulled out my chair, and took both of my hands in his.
“Do you want to go?” he asked again.
“I want him to know,” I whispered, the words coming from a place so deep inside me I hadn't realized it was still there. “I want him to see that the woman he left in the rain didn't drown.”
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Luke smiled. It was a slow, dangerous smile—the kind of look he gave a stubborn electrical conduit right before he bent it to his will.
“Then we’re going,” Luke said. “All five of us. Go call Natalie. Tell her we need three miniature navy blazers with gold buttons. If Grant Hollis wants a show in the front row, we’re going to give him the whole choir.”
