My feet. They were soldiers. They fought battles for me I didn’t even know I was fighting. They walked me through things I normally wouldn’t walk through. It didn’t matter where I’d been, I was never the same person when I left. It was this realization that brought the smile. Pain doesn’t go away, but it does a lot to change you.
My hand wrapped around the doorknob, my gaze going over my shoulder. “I’m not running away,” I said. “I’m going home. And your son isn’t running away. He’s searching for something. He’ll find it, and when he does, he’ll come back. Because that’s what people who seek stuff do. They find it, and then they share it with the people they love.”
Twisting the knob, I left, my grin widening as the door clicked shut behind me. There was that irony again. Heathcliff was looking for something beyond our hometown, and in the process was helping me find myself.
The wind kissed my face as I stepped toward Heathcliff’s truck and climbed in. The seat was uncomfortable, the cracked leather cold against my jeans. It’s funny how life unveils itself, choosing the oddest moments to say open your eyes.
“Hey,” Heathcliff called, his voice breaking me out of my reverie. He stood outside the truck, his hands on the open window. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered, smiling. “I think I am.”
He gave me a funny look, his hand pulling at the truck door. “You aren’t leaving yet,” he told me.
I glanced at the house. “I’m fine right here until you’re done. Seriously. You need to go back to your family.”
“That’s kind of hard when it was the birthday woman who ordered me to leave.” He chuckled. “I think she likes you.” Pulling the door open, he held out his hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
My fingers met his palm, and he tugged me from the vehicle hard enough I stumbled into him, my free hand going to his chest. His sudden wink was proof that it’d been on purpose.
Tucking me close, he led me over the lawn to the backyard. Solar lamps threw dim light over his features, the shadows making his cheeks look sharper, his eyes fierce. He was an interesting mix of masculine and boyish, tall and muscular but vulnerable in a way that wasn’t noticeable at first.
“You aren’t a failure,” he said abruptly.
My gaze shot to his profile. “I know that, but I am their failure. It’s crazy, right? Where they failed, Uncle Gregor succeeded.”
Heathcliff’s hand tightened on mine. “I don’t think I would have seen it quite that way. You see things differently, Hawthorne. You take things and cast a whole new light on them.”
“You do, too.”
Releasing me, he shoved his hands into his pockets, the gesture reminding me of his father.
“Not the way you do.” He glanced at the house. “Thank you for what you did in there. I’m not sure how they’re taking it, but I don’t think they would have even considered my feelings if you hadn’t spoken.”
I shrugged. “It’s fear. Everyone has it. They love you enough it hurts. This is probably going to sound stupid, but I … I think that if love didn’t exist fear wouldn’t either. You have to love something to be afraid of losing it, whether that’s simply loving ourselves or someone else. They love you, and they love this town. They fear losing both.”
He stared. “You’re an old soul.”
I smiled. “No, I just think people could use a dose of realism. Do you know what I want to do? You have to promise not to laugh though.”
He nodded, his lips twitching.
I chuckled. “I want to cook, but I want to fill whatever I make with philosophy, with life. We’re from the South. For our ancestors, food was often hard to come by. We needed it to survive. Now, we use it to live, to congregate, to express love, pain, grief, and comfort. I want to make cooking a philosophy.”
Heathcliff grinned, but he didn’t laugh. “The Philosophical Chef. That could work. It’d be an interesting brand.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s been done before, but everything’s been done before. The key is to make it your own. To take whatever you choose to do and make it yours.”
He nodded at the barn, and we walked toward it. “That’s kind of deep, isn’t it?” he asked.
My gaze found the woodshop within, landing on handmade benches, chairs, tables, furniture, and sculptures. It was beautiful, the scent of the wood as compelling as the artistry.
“I guess it is. Does that make me less appealing?”
He shot me a look. “If you think being deep makes you less appealing, then you must not think highly of me.”
My gaze caught his, my pulse quickening. “This shop,” I stuttered, “is it your dad’s?”
Heathcliff nodded. “It’s his, and it was my grandfather’s before him. I guess you could say that’s what makes a Vincent, timber and land. We respect nature. It’s been our survival, so we give as much as we take.”