Page 19 of Atonement Trail
“Thursday,” she said. “What should I bring?”
“Just yourself. And maybe wine if you don’t trust my selection. Fair warning—I learned about wine from my brothers, which means I know exactly three facts and they’re all wrong.”
She laughed, and the sound surprised them both—free and genuine and carrying nothing but joy. It had been so long since she’d laughed like that, she’d forgotten the feeling of it, the way it loosened everything that had been held tight.
“I’ll bring wine,” she promised.
The rest of Wednesday passed in a blur of ordinary tasks made extraordinary by anticipation. Dylan found herself checking the clock, calculating hours until Thursday, until dinner, until the dangerous pleasure of being alone with Aidan in his space.
That night, she stood in her painted apartment, trying to see it through stranger’s eyes. The terra-cotta walls glowed in lamplight, making the space feel like the inside of a heart. She’d hung a few pictures—nothing significant, just landscapes from the local art fair—but they transformed the walls from surfaces to stories.
This was what staying looked like. Small changes accumulating like snow, each one insignificant alone but together creating something that could alter landscapes. A painted wall here, a picture there, a business partnership, a dinner invitation—the architecture of a life being built choice by choice.
Her phone buzzed. Aidan: Fair warning—I asked Mom for cooking advice and now the entire family knows you’re coming for dinner Thursday. I expect at least three “casual” drop-bys.
Dylan typed back—Should I be worried?
Only if you’re allergic to aggressive matchmaking disguised as maternal concern.
I’ve survived this long in Laurel Valley. I think I’ve built up immunity.
We’ll see. O’Hara women are varsity level. They’ve married off four sons. I’m the last holdout.
The last holdout. The words carried weight, significance, the shadow of the treasure hunt and Patrick’s hidden ring. Dylan wondered if Aidan knew how much his grandfather’s game revealed—not just about the past but about the future Patrick had been trying to architect from beyond the grave.
Thursday came dressed in clouds that promised rain but couldn’t quite deliver, the sky holding its breath like the whole valley was waiting for something to happen. Dylan worked through the day with half her attention, the other half already at dinner, already navigating the minefield of family history and personal boundaries.
At five thirty, she closed her toolbox with the finality of someone making a decision.
“Leaving early?” Ralph asked with studied innocence.
“I have dinner plans.”
“I know. Everyone knows. Bernie Watson’s taking bets on whether Anne shows up with dessert.”
“What are the odds?”
“Three to one in favor. Better odds on Sophie arriving with wine recommendations.”
Dylan shook her head, but she was smiling. This was the price of belonging—everyone in your business, everyone invested in your story, everyone hoping for your happiness with the fervor of people who understood that one person’s joy lifted the whole community.
She went home to change, choosing jeans and a soft green sweater that made her eyes look even more violet. Nothing too fancy, nothing that suggested this was more than two friends researching family history. The lie was comfortable, necessary, as fragile as spun sugar.
The walk to Aidan’s house took her away from downtown, into the residential streets where Laurel Valley’s permanent residents made their lives. The houses here told stories—Craftsmans that had sheltered generations, Victorians that had been restored with love and money, new builds that tried to honor the town’s architectural heritage with varying degrees of success.
Aidan’s house sat on a corner lot, a 1920s bungalow that managed to be both modest and perfect. The porch light was on, warm and welcoming, and through the windows she could see him moving in what must be the kitchen, gesturing with a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra or casting a spell.
She climbed the porch steps, wine bottle clutched like a talisman, and knocked.
“It’s open,” he called. “I’m at a critical pasta juncture and can’t abandon my post.”
Dylan let herself in, stepping into a space that was immediately, overwhelmingly Aidan. Books stacked on surfaces, a guitar leaning in the corner, photographs covering one wall like a collage of memory. But the couch looked like it had come with the house, the coffee table held more mail than personality.
"Kitchen's through here," he called. "Follow the smell of potential disaster."
She found him standing over a pot of boiling water, looking at it with the suspicion of someone who'd been betrayed by pasta before.
"How can you rebuild an engine from memory but look terrified of spaghetti?" she asked.
