Chapter 12 Small Town Whispers

POV: Wren

The grocery store smelled like overripe bananas and floor wax. Wren pushed the cart down the cereal aisle, trying to remember if she'd eaten anything that morning. The lab had swallowed her whole for three days—three days since Jonah had looked at her across the restoration table and walked away.

She needed coffee. Bread. Something that wouldn't remind her of the hollow ache in her chest.

The cart had a wobbly wheel that pulled to the left. She corrected it, focusing on the mundane task as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"Wren Blackwood."

The voice came from behind her. Female. Older. Carrying the weight of recognition and judgment in equal measure.

Wren turned. The woman was in her sixties, with gray hair cut short, wearing a canvas jacket that had seen better decades. Her face was familiar in that terrible way that meant Wren should remember her name but couldn't quite place it.

"Mrs. Henderson," the woman supplied. "You probably don't remember. I taught your Sunday school class when you were eight or nine."

Memory clicked. Henderson's Hardware. Her husband had sold Wren's father the nails for the backyard shed.

"Mrs. Henderson," Wren said, forcing a smile. "It's good to see you."

"Is it?" The woman's eyes—pale blue, sharp as glass—swept over Wren. "Heard you came back."

"Yes. I'm working at the museum."

"So I heard." Mrs. Henderson shifted her shopping basket. "Also heard you're working for Jonah Raines."

The way she said his name—careful, protective—made Wren's stomach clench.

"With him," Wren corrected softly. "Not for him."

“That boy spent two years like a ghost after you left.” Mrs. Henderson’s voice wasn’t loud, yet it carried down the aisle, steady enough to draw a glance from another shopper—pretending not to listen while listening all the same.

Wren's fingers tightened on the cart handle. "Mrs. Henderson, I don't think—"

"My husband and I watched him come into the hardware store every Saturday. Building things. Fixing things. Never talking much." She paused. "People cope in different ways with heartbreak. Jonah Raines built half this town's community gardens with his bare hands."

The image hit Wren like a slap. Jonah. Dirt under his fingernails. Building things to keep from breaking.

"I didn't know," Wren whispered.

"Of course you didn't." Mrs. Henderson's expression softened slightly. "You weren't here."

The judgment in those three words could've filled volumes.

"I had reasons—"

"I'm sure you did, honey." The endearment was more weapon than comfort. "We all got reasons. The question is whether our reasons are good enough to justify the damage."

Before Wren could respond, Mrs. Henderson shifted her basket and turned toward the checkout.

"Welcome back to Cascade," she said over her shoulder. "I hope whatever brought you home was worth it."

Then she was gone, leaving Wren standing in the cereal aisle with a wobbly cart and a chest so tight she couldn't breathe.

She abandoned the cart. Left it right there in the middle of the aisle. She walked out into the parking lot, where the March air stung.

Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against her thighs. Breathed.

He built gardens.

She'd coped by running, by building a life in Seattle that didn't include mountains or the ghost of Jonah Raines around every corner.

He'd coped by staying. By building. By turning his grief into something the whole town could use.

"You okay?"

Wren looked up. The young woman from inside stood a few feet away, expression uncertain.

"I'm fine," Wren lied.

"You don't look fine." The woman had dark curly hair and paint stains on her jeans. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I just need—" Wren started, then stopped. "I'm fine."

The woman studied her. "You're Wren Blackwood."

Not a question. A statement.

"Yes."

"The one who—" She stopped. Bit her lip. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"Everyone seems to think it's their business."

"Small town." The woman shrugged. "People talk – especially about Jonah. People here love him. He's done a lot for Cascade."

"The gardens," Wren whispered.

"Yeah. The gardens." The woman shifted. "Look, I don't know your story. But he's a good guy. Just... be careful with him, okay?"

Then she walked back inside, leaving Wren alone with the cold wind and crushing judgment.

She got in her truck. Drove. Not to her apartment. Just drove.

Past the hardware store where Jonah had bought supplies to build gardens, his heart broke.

Past the library—a brick building with a bronze plaque: RESTORED 2021. DIRECTOR: JONAH RAINES.

Past the community center with fresh paint and a sign: FUNDED BY CASCADE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM.

He had restored the library, funded the renovations, and built the gardens.

She kept driving until she reached the overlook from high school. From nights with Jonah, fogging up windows, talking about infinite futures.

The valley spread below. Cascade is nestled in the center. The museum is visible—a Victorian building with Gothic peaks, the newer wing extending east.

Her phone buzzed. She looked.

Dr. Webb: Take the day. You've earned it.

Unknown number: This is Sage. We need to talk. Tonight. My place. 7 PM. Don't be late.

Not an invitation. A summons.

Wren typed back: I'll be there.

Another buzz from Sage: And bring wine. Good wine. You owe us that much.

At 6:55 PM, her headlights swept across the narrow street before settling on Sage’s house. The porch light glowed against peeling paint, casting long shadows across the yard. Two cars sat shoulder to shoulder in the driveway, their metal catching the last trace of daylight. Through the front window, a warm spill of light hinted at voices moving inside.

She grabbed the wine, tightened her grip on the wine bottle, the glass cool against her palm, and knocked. A moment later, the door swung open. Sage stood framed in the light, one eyebrow lifted.

“You’re early,” she said.

"I'm punctual."

"Same thing." Sage stepped back. "Come in."

The house smelled like garlic and tomato sauce. And sitting on the couch, wine already in hand, was Dr. Marcus Webb.

He smiled gently. "Hello, Wren."

"Dr. Webb. I didn't—"

"She said 'us,'" Webb finished. "Come. Sit. We have things to discuss."

Wren sat. Opened the wine with trembling hands. Poured three glasses.

Sage took a sip. Set her glass down. Looked at Wren directly.

Okay. I’m going to ask you one question. And I need you to answer honestly. No bullshit. Just the truth."

Wren’s chest tightened. "Okay."

"Why did you really leave?"

The question hung in the air—simple, devastating.

"I was pregnant," Wren whispered.

Sage’s arms fell to her sides. Webb went very still.

"And I was terrified," Wren continued. "We were twenty-two. Broke. My mother was already showing signs of dementia. Jonah had just gotten into grad school. And I—" Her voice cracked. "I was pregnant, and I didn’t know how to tell him without destroying everything."

"So you left," Sage said, his voice flat, stripped of anything but fact.

"So I left." Wren’s eyes burned. "I told myself I was protecting him. But really—I was protecting myself."

The silence that followed was heavy, absolute, pressing down on the room like a weight no one could lift.

"You have a child," Sage said quietly.

"I have a daughter. Her name is Lily. She's nine. She has his eyes."

Webb made a sound between a sigh and a prayer.

"Does Jonah know?" Sage asked.

"Not yet. I was going to tell him, but then my mother had the stroke and—"

"There is no right time," Sage interrupted. "There's just time. And you've already stolen ten years."

"I know."

"Do you?" Sage leaned forward. "Do you know what it did to him? He became this town's savior because it was easier than being the man whose heart got broken."

Wren's vision blurred. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry, don't give him back those years." Sage took a breath. "But he still loves you, too."

Wren's head snapped up. "What?"

"Anyone with eyes can see it. The way he rearranged his schedule to avoid you. The hummingbird commented," Sage's expression softened. "He's still in love with you. He just doesn't want to be."

"What do I do?"

"You tell him," Webb said gently. "About Lily. About everything."

"He won't listen."

"Then make him listen," Sage said. "Because Lily deserves a father. And Jonah deserves to know. And you deserve the chance to make this right. Even if he never forgives you."

They talked for two more hours. Drank both bottles. By midnight, Wren left feeling both better and worse.

She drove home. Climbed to her apartment. Stood looking at the photograph on her nightstand.

Her phone buzzed with an unknown number.

A photo appeared: a community garden, edges framed in late sunlight. A bronze plaque gleamed beneath the vines—RAINES MEMORIAL GARDEN. EST. 2016.

A text followed: He built this the year after you left, in memory of what he couldn’t save.

Another: You broke him – but maybe you can help him heal. If you’re brave enough.

Her fingers trembled as she typed: Who is this?

The reply came quickly: Someone who believes in second chances. Tell him the truth. Soon. Before the town does it for you.

She stared at the screen, her chest tightening with each breath. Before she could respond, her phone lit again—this time with a call.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" Lily’s voice was small, trembling at the edges. "Mom… something happened."

Wren's heart stopped. "What? Baby, what's wrong?"

"Aunt Rachel showed me how to look you up online. I found articles. About you and Dad. About when you left. And people are writing comments. Mean ones. They say you abandoned him. That you broke his heart. Mom… is it true? Did you hurt him that badly?"

Wren’s throat tightened. "It’s complicated, baby."

"That's what you always say!" Lily's voice cracked. "You said he didn't know about me. But these people—they're saying you left on purpose. Did you? Did you choose to keep us apart?"

Silence.

"Lily—"

"Did you?"

"Yes."

The word hung there.

"I hate you," Lily whispered.

The line went dead.

Wren stood in the dark, phone in hand, world crumbling. She had to tell Jonah. Now. Before he heard it from someone else.

She grabbed her keys. Ran to her truck. Drove to the museum.

It loomed dark except for one light—his office.

She pounded on the locked door. "Jonah! Please! I need to talk to you!"

Nothing.

"Jonah! It's important!"

The light went out.

She watched him choose darkness.

Her phone buzzed. Text from the museum number: Go home, Wren. Whatever you have to say can wait until morning.

She stared at the dark window.

"It can't wait," she whispered to the glass. To the man inside who wouldn't answer. To the secret that was already unraveling.

But he was already gone.