Wren nods, keeping one hand on the wheel. “Then we’ll do it. But if she’s not up for company, we won’t take it personally.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. Margaret James has never been unkind to me. When Dorian told me that she’d been diagnosed, I didn’t think. I just decided I’d stop by. Bring flowers. Maybe tea. Maybe comfort.
Now, with the house appearing through the trees, I realize how naive that was.
The James house used to look like an old farmhouse dressed up for Sunday church—white clapboard, sagging porch, ivy climbing up the chimney. Now it’s something else entirely.
The roof gleams slate gray against the snow, and the porch is wider, with new cedar railings. The siding’s been replaced, the windows framed in black trim.
It looks clean. Sharp. Not at all the place I used to sneak into on warm summer nights with Dorian.
Wren whistles under her breath. “Well, look at that. Someone’s been busy.”
“Yeah.” My voice catches. “Dorian must’ve redone everything.”
She parks near the edge of the drive. For a second, all I can do is stare at the front door. The wreath hanging there is simple. Green pine with a single red bow.
Wren glances over at me. “You want me to come up with you?”
I shake my head. “No. You wait here. I’ll just drop this off.”
She reaches over, resting her hand on my arm. “You’re doing something kind, Norah.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Then I grab the bouquet and the small loaf of banana bread wrapped in wax paper. My boots crunch against the snow as I walk up the path.
Everything’s too neat. The porch that used to creak under my feet feels solid now. The wind carries the faint scent of cedar—Dorian’s scent, but sharper, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I knock.
It takes a while before the door opens. Margaret stands there, framed in the warm light of the foyer.
She looks smaller than I remember, her gray hair pinned back neatly, a thick cardigan over her shoulders. She’s not wearing her glasses, but her eyes seem sharp, clear, and still full of fire.
“Norah,” she says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
I lift the bouquet slightly. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. I wanted to bring these.”
Her expression flickers. Not gratitude. Something closer to discomfort. “That’s kind of you, dear, but you didn’t need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble.” I try to smile, to make this easy. “They’re from the shop. Wren’s in the car. She baked this morning and thought you might like some.”
Her gaze shifts past me toward the driveway, then back. “I see. Well.” She steps aside. “You’d better come in before you freeze.”
I step inside. The house smells like lemon polish and wood smoke. The floors gleam, and the furniture’s new. Modern lines and soft gray fabrics, not the old floral couch I remember.
Everything’s changed except for the piano in the corner and the framed photographs above it. One catches my eye: Dorian at a construction site, sunlight in his hair, smiling in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“Everything looks beautiful,” I say quietly.
“Dorian insisted,” she replies, crossing her arms. “After the storm damage three years ago, he said it was time. I let him have his way.”
I set the bouquet on the entry table. “You raised a good man.”
For a second, I think I see her soften. But then her jaw tightens. “Yes, well. Good men don’t always make good decisions.”
Before I can answer, a voice comes from the hallway. “Mom? Who’s at the door?”
Dorian appears, sleeves rolled up, a pencil tucked behind his ear. His jaw’s covered in that rough stubble that used to scrape my neck when he kissed me.
