Page 62 of The Candlemaker

And then he was heading for me, his gaze like a bottomless well; the deeper I went, the more pain I found.

We didn’t say a word as we left the building—not to each other, at least. Chandler led the way, exchanging pleasantries with Cathy, who gave me another warm smile on our way out. He held the door for me—both the one out of the building and the passenger door on his car.

This time, when he climbed in the seat beside me, the tension was different. The thread that had been pulled taut was now all tangled and loose.

“Chandler…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained.

Sorry?I bit into my tongue to stop a cry from leaking through my lips. He shouldn’t be sorry.Why would he think he should be sorry?

“Who’s Geoff?”

He exhaled slowly, like it was all the life leaving him in one single breath.

“My father.”

Chapter Fifteen

Chandler

The bandaround my chest ratcheted tighter with every breath. She shouldn’t be here, but if she hadn’t been…my exhale hissed through my lips.Fuck.

“How long has your mom lived here?” Frankie asked, jarring me from the spiral of my thoughts. Her eyes followed the building as it disappeared in her side mirror.

I hesitated, but not out of embarrassment. There were only a handful of people who knew about Mom’s condition—people who cared about her. People I trusted. I wouldn’t risk someone trying to take advantage of her because of who I was—because of how much I was worth. And somehow, Frankie—my adversary—was about to become one of those people.

Because I’d brought her here with me.

“Five years,” I rasped, the trees becoming a blur on either side of the road as I drove us back toward town.

Somehow, it was the afternoon already. The sky was void ofcolor. The passing scenery was void of detail. My chest…was void of everything—pain and guilt and regret. Everything was hollow except the woman sitting next to me.

Frankie was full.Full of color from her cheeks to her clothes—a yellow tee and a pair of orange patterned pants that flowed so loose, when she stood still, it looked like she had on a skirt.She was full of courage. To step in where my fear had locked her out. To put herself in the middle of everything to try and help. To expose her own feelings when Mom…

“Is it dementia or…”

“Alzheimer’s.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken the diagnosis out loud to anyone other than Tom or Mom’s care team. “The last year and a half has gotten worse, especially with her recent memory. She gets more forgetful. More irritable.” My jaw clenched. “They would’ve sedated her if…”

“You hadn’t come.”

My heart slammed against my chest. “No,” I admitted hoarsely. “If you hadn’t.”

The truth fisted around my throat. When Cathy called earlier and told me Mom was hysterical, I ordered them not to sedate her unless they truly felt she was at risk of harming herself. I said I’d be there—that I would calm her. And then I’d hung up, and instead of just leaving, I’d gone back into the candle shop for Frankie.

Why?Because I didn’t trust her out of my sight?Bullshit.

Sure, I’d aimed to spend every minute with her because I damn well knew the inn wasn’t haunted. I wanted to prove I was right. And I wanted to see how resourceful she’d be to do the same. But that rationale—that excuse—it disappeared days ago. It disappeared the second she told me why she started making candles in the first place.

And that was the reason I’d gone back—the reason I brought her withme.

Because underneath it all—underneath the woman who pretended to be her sister, who faked a séance on the sidewalk, and who slept next to a stranger every night—Francesca Kinkade was a woman who would do anything for her family. And maybe I was hoping she would do the same for mine.

“I’m sorry for telling her about our date…and after. I was just trying to distract her.”

Mom wasn’t the only one distracted by the story. Frankie could’ve told her anything—real, fake, it wouldn’t have mattered; Mom would’ve been enrapt by whatever it was. But Frankie chose to tell her about us. About our first fake date…and that kiss. And the way she described it wasn’t a lie. Not the pink in her cheeks or the flutter of her pulse against the side of her neck.

“Don’t apologize,” I ordered, a little more gruff than intended. “Please. I can’t thank you enough.” I parked in front of her shop and killed the engine; the closed sign hanging askew on the door reminded me that she was off for the rest of the day. “Do you want me to drop you off somewhere else?”

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