Page 4 of Big and Grumpy
Tuesday brings homemade bread. Wednesday, it's soup that's still warm in a thermos, with crackers and a little container of honey butter. Each time, the plate or container comes back clean, sometimes with a brief note of thanks.
By Thursday, I'm starting to look forward to these small exchanges more than I should. I'm not trying to win him over with food—I'm really not. It's just that cooking for one person is depressing, and I've always been someone who shows appreciation through action rather than words.
That afternoon, I decide to venture into town for supplies. Whitepine is small but charming, with a main street that looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie. The general store doubles as a post office, and the woman behind the counter—Mrs. Patterson, according to her name tag—smiles warmly when I introduce myself.
"So you're the city girl who rented the old Hartwell cabin," she says, ringing up my groceries. "How are you finding our little corner of the world?"
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "Exactly what I needed."
"And how's Holt treating you? That man's been a bear ever since his divorce. Not that I blame him, mind you, after what happened."
I'm instantly curious, but too polite to pry directly. "He's been... helpful. Fixed my porch when a branch fell on it."
Mrs. Patterson's eyebrows shoot up. "Did he now? Well, wonders never cease." She leans in conspiratorially. "That's more than he's done for anyone in town for the past two years. You must have made quite an impression."
***
That afternoon, I see him outside splitting wood with the same methodical precision he brings to everything else. On impulse, I grab a plate of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and head across the clearing before I can talk myself out of it.
"Afternoon snack?" I offer, holding up the plate.
He stops mid-swing, looking at me with something that might be exasperation. "You don't have to keep feeding me."
"I know I don't have to. I want to." I set the plate on his porch railing. "Besides, they're oatmeal chocolate chip. I made too many."
"You always make too much?"
"Occupational hazard of being an optimistic baker."
He sets down his axe and reaches for a cookie, and I notice his hands are steady and strong, with calluses that speak to years of hard work.
"These are good," he admits after the first bite.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"Not surprised. Just..." He pauses, seeming to struggle with the words. "Haven't had anyone cook for me in a while."
The admission slips out before he can stop it, and I feel my expression soften with understanding.
"Divorce is hard," I say quietly. "Even when it's for the best."
"Who says it was for the best?"
"The fact that you're here instead of there."
My simple logic seems to hit him harder than expected. The truth is, I'm guessing his divorce was probably the best thing that could have happened to him—he just hadn't been ready to admit it at the time.
"What about you?" he asks, more to change the subject than because he needs to know. "Ever been married?"
"Engaged. Caught him cheating three weeks before the wedding." I say it matter-of-factly, though the old hurt still stings. "Turns out planning a life with someone who's planning a different life with someone else doesn't work out well."
"Bastard."
The word comes out with more heat than he seems to have intended, and I look up in surprise at the genuine anger in his voice.
"Yeah," I say softly. "He was."
We stand there in comfortable silence, two people who've been burned by love and are still figuring out how to trust again.
