Page 77 of Holly & Hemlock
“Well then, you are always welcome here.”
We stand in silence, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway a constant, counting out the seconds until one of us breaks. I look at Whitby, really look, and see the ghost of the woman she might have been—softer, less guarded, capable of joy.
“I don’t know if I’ll be any better at this than Maeve,” I say.
She shrugs, shoulders up, shoulders down. “You will be different. Sometimes that is enough.”
The clock strikes the hour, and for a moment the world resets itself.
Whitby gathers the tray—tea, toast, preserves, and a single, perfect slice of orange. She straightens her back, squares her chin, and walks from the room with the same practiced grace she’s had since my childhood. At the door, she pauses, turns.
“Welcome home, Miss Vale,” she says, and for the first time, I believe her.
She leaves. I stand in the kitchen, my hands empty, the sunlight painting the tiles in a grid of gold and gray. I listen to the sound of her steps echo through the hall, and know that some chains are never meant to be broken, only worn with dignity.
Somewhere outside, the snow is already melting. The sun is rising, and I am still here.
I am not sure what happens next, but I know I will face it with open eyes.
23
Holly and Hemlock
THREE MONTHS LATER
March comes to Hemlock like a fever breaking. There’s no polite interval between frost and thaw. The world simply snaps awake, as if the cold was only a long-held breath. The snow that held court for months has dissolved into retreating dregs, slumped in the hollows and north slopes, shriveled and dirty and out of place.
Even the orchard looks embarrassed by its own starkness, the old trees naked and brittle, bark splayed in furrows like wrinkles on a spent face.
I walk the edge of the fence, fingers snagging the brittle wires as I go. The ground is half-mud, half-ice, pocked with rabbit prints and the rusted melt of the last storm. The sky is blown glass, veined with streaks of vapor. The air is so raw and unrefined it stings the inside of my nose, but I like it—it feels honest, a necessary meanness before anything soft can grow back.
Lane is out here already, head down, knees sunk in the muck. His jacket is slung over a branch, and his shirt is dark with sweat and dirt at the cuffs. I watch him from a distance,just to see how he moves when he thinks he is alone. His hands are decisive, stripping the old burlap from the base of the trees, pruning away the dead twigs with a small, vicious blade.
He doesn’t look up when I approach, but he must know I’m there. No one can sneak up on Lane; it’s like the ground itself reports my presence.
“Still standing,” he says, by way of greeting, not bothering to look up from his work.
“Barely,” I say. “They look half-dead.”
He shrugs, the movement rolling across his back and down his arms. “Always do, this time of year. Doesn’t mean they’re not waiting.” He rocks back on his heels, wipes his hands on his jeans, and regards me with that cloudless, unhurried gaze. “Everything’s just waiting.”
I crouch beside him, though the mud seeps through my leggings and the damp finds its way straight to the bone. I reach for a fallen branch—slick with thaw, pulpy as wet bread—and toss it onto the pile. Lane watches, expression unreadable.
“You know, you don’t have to do all this by hand,” I say. “We could rent equipment. Or hire more workers.”
He grins, teeth white in the shadow of his beard. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I shake my head. “You’re the only person I know who thinks pruning is fun.”
He stands, stretching, arms above his head. His shirt rides up, just a little, enough for me to see the pale track of a scar at his side, the same color as the sky. I look away before he catches me staring, but not fast enough. He doesn’t call me on it, just smirks, and I hate him a little for it, but not enough to matter.
We move down the line, tree by tree. I hand him theclippers, the saw, the twine; he passes them back, never fumbling. There’s a rhythm to it, a way of being together that requires no words and no effort. I like this version of us best—the kind that just is, without explanation.
At the end of the row, we stop to admire the view. The house is distant but not remote, its roofline wreathed in the vapor of the warming earth. For a moment, I can almost believe that spring is real, that it will come and remake everything ugly and hard. I feel Lane’s hand at my elbow, a gentle pressure to steady me on the uneven ground.
“You’re thinking again,” he says, more observation than accusation.
I nod. “I’m always thinking.”
