Clara. Her great-great-grandmother’s name had been Clara. She knew that from the old family Bible her mother kept, the one with names and dates recorded in fading ink. Her grandmother hadn’t just passed through the town.
“We have roots here,” she whispered to the baby. The knowledge felt like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place. Somepart of her had been drawn back to where her family belonged. The baby did a slow roll, as if agreeing.
Chloe lost track of time after that, piecing together fragments of her ancestor’s life. Clara had been respected, sought after for difficult births. Dr. Jackson’s journal entries spoke of her with admiration. The town records showed fees paid, grateful letters from families.
And then—nothing.
Chloe frowned, cross-referencing dates. No death certificate. No marriage announcement that would explain a name change. Just an abrupt absence, like she’d been erased.
“Where did you go?” Chloe murmured, running her finger down a ledger page. “And why?”
Her stomach rumbled, interrupting the mystery. She checked her watch and blinked. Nearly two o’clock. She’d worked through lunch, too absorbed to notice.
“Sorry, baby. I’m a terrible mother already.”
The baby kicked, apparently unimpressed with the apology, and she laughed. She rose to her feet, wincing as her back protested. She needed food, a bathroom, and probably some fresh air. The corner store was just up the street—she could grab something to make sandwiches, and come back to tackle more boxes.
She carefully placed the box that had contained the journal back on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. She needed to catalog it properly and create a system for personal documents versus official records. Carrying the journal back to her desk, she decided she should probably mention to Victor that she’d found his great-grandfather’s writings. The thought of seeinghim again made her nervous and eager in equal measure, which was ridiculous.
She gathered her things and climbed the stairs into afternoon sunlight. The October air bit with the promise of winter, but the sun felt glorious after hours in the basement. She breathed deep and tilted her face up, relishing the warmth of the sunlight.
The corner store was located on the corner between Main Street and the Town Square, looking like something out of a postcard with a wide porch lined with rocking chairs and an artistic display of pumpkins and sheaves of wheat. A bell chimed as she opened the door.
The interior smelled like cinnamon, apples, and old wood. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with everything from groceries to hardware to what appeared to be hand-knitted socks. A record player in the corner played an old country song about pickup trucks and cowboys. The store could have come from the set of a Hallmark movie—except Hallmark movies didn’t usually have the snow-white head of a yeti bobbing over a display of garden rakes or a fairy trailing blue glitter as she hurried down the aisle.
Smiled to herself, she grabbed a basket and started browsing. She needed more tea, maybe some fruit, definitely those cookies that smelled divine?—
She came to an abrupt halt. Victor stood in the canned goods aisle, studying labels with the same focused intensity he’d probably use reading medical journals. He’d traded his formal clothes for dark jeans and a grey Henley that clung to shoulders she absolutely should not be noticing. His hair looked slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it.
He glanced up and their eyes met. For a heartbeat, something flashed across his face—heat, hunger, something that made her skin tingle. Then it shuttered, gone so fast she might have imagined it.
“Miss Bennington,” he said, as coolly as if they were barely acquainted. As if he hadn’t carried her up the stairs in his arms the previous night.
“Dr. Jackson.” She managed an awkward smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I needed—” He looked at the can in his hand. “Soup.”
“Right. Soup.”
They stood there, the moment stretching uncomfortably, as the music changed something slow and yearning. She finally cleared her throat. “Well. I’ll just?—”
“Of course.” He stepped aside, giving her plenty of space, and she told herself she wasn’t disappointed. His concern the previous night must have been purely professional. That feeling of connection had probably been her pregnancy hormones making her see things that weren’t there.
She forced herself to nod politely and move past him. A little further along the aisle, she stopped, reaching for a can of tomatoes on a higher shelf. Her fingers brushed the metal but she couldn’t quite grasp the can. A big hand reached over her shoulder and easily plucked the can off the shelf.
“Thank you,” she said, turning.
He stood closer than she’d expected, close enough that she caught that spicy scent again. His eyes were carefully neutral, but his jaw was tight.
“You shouldn’t be reaching overhead,” he said sharply. “Not this far along.”
“I’m only six months. I can still?—”
“The baby’s weight pulls your spine forward and shifts your center of gravity.”
She sighed. “I didn’t realize grocery shopping required medical supervision.”
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe, or exasperation. “Just be careful.”
