Page 41 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
I pull into the gravel drive and kill the engine, sitting for a second with my hands still on the wheel. The house sits back from the road, framed by tall maples, their leaves shifting in the late-summer breeze. It’s not too big, but it’s not small either. Two stories, white clapboard, dark blue shutters—but everything about it is well cared for.
The covered porch stretches wide across the front, the kind of porch that begs for quiet mornings and coffee, with a line of hanging flower baskets swaying just enough to catch the light.
The lawn is freshly cut, neat lines marching toward the edge of the property where the land slopes gently down to the river.From here, I can see flashes of blue water through the trees, the surface glinting like polished glass.
Jason grew up here. I’ve been by quite a few times over the years, especially before I left for college, but it still catches me off guard how much it suits the family. Solid, good bones. The kind of place you can trust to be the same no matter how much time passes.
Jason had texted me this morning, casual as anything: Got an appointment. Can you drop a box at Mom’s? It’s your day off anyway. No problem, I’d said.
But it is a problem. A big problem.
The box sits in my passenger seat, taped shut, and light enough that I have no idea what’s in it.
I rest it against my hip for a second as I look at the front door. Back when we were teenagers, I used to roll in here with Jason, laughing like two idiots about nothing, stopping in the kitchen to raid the fridge before heading out again.
Paige was too young for crushes then. No, that only happened after I’d come back from college and before she’d left.
But she’s back now, and there’s no avoiding her.
The porch creaks softly under my weight as I climb the steps, my boots leaving small scuffs on the sun-warmed wood. There’s a rocking chair near the door, a folded quilt draped over the back,and for a second, I can picture Jason’s mom here, tea in hand, watching the river.
I knock lightly, listening for footsteps inside. There’s the soft murmur of voices on the other side, maybe a TV? Then footsteps follow.
The door opens, and she’s there. Paige.
She fills the doorway, and for a heartbeat, I forget why I’m here.
Paige’s hair is half-up in a loose knot, a few dark strands falling around her face the way they always do when she’s been working. She’s in a soft gray T-shirt knotted at her waist and a pair of worn jeans. Bare feet. Pink toenails. Nothing fancy. And yet the breath still catches somewhere between my chest and throat like I’ve swallowed wrong.
“Ben,” she says, and it lands neutral. Not warm. Not cold. A word placed carefully on the line between.
“Hey.” I lift the box because I need something to do with my hands. “Jason asked me to drop this off for your mom.”
“She’s not here.”
“That’s all right. I can just leave it for her.”
“Right.” She glances past me toward the truck, then back, and steps aside. “Come in.”
The house smells the way it always has—a little lemon from whatever they clean with, something yeasty and warm coming from the back, and the faintest thread of river air that sneaks in through the screens. The entryway is bright and neat, shoes lined up under the coat hooks, a framed photo of Jason on a baseball field next to one of Paige at a piano in a white dress, hair a mile long and braces flashing. I force my eyes away from that one before my brain can try to square the kid in the frame with the woman in front of me.
“You can set it on the bench in the kitchen,” she says, closing the door behind me.
The kitchen smells like warm sugar and cinnamon. It’s not until I see lemon halves on a plate near the sink that I realize it’s not cleaner that smells like lemon. Whatever Paige is baking does.
Afternoon light pours in through the big window over the counter, catching on motes of flour that hang in the air and drift down onto the wood.
She’s already back at work when I set the box on the low bench near the wall, her sleeves pushed up, hair twisted into a knot that’s unraveling in pieces. There’s flour on her cheek, on her forearm, on the hip of her jeans. She’s not looking at me. She’s got a spoon in one hand, a big pale-green mixing bowl in the other, and she’s beating the dough like it owes her money.
“Bench is fine for that,” she says, without turning. Though her voice is calm, it doesn’t seem calm somehow.
I put the box down and stay where I am.
“You’re not working at the bakery today?” I immediately regret the words.Obviously not, you idiot.
Stating the obvious seems to be the only thing I’m good at today.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Just testing some recipes.”
