Chapter 1 - The First ShingleThe silence after Claire’s comment about dinner lingered longer than the paint fumes.
Nathan stood frozen on the second rung of the ladder, the claw hammer dead in his grip. His mind, usually a fortress of spreadsheets, risk assessments, and exit strategies, stalled completely. Why ten?
Because forty-four and twenty-six wasn't just an eighteen-year gap; it was a generational chasm. It was a different reference point for music, for history, for how the world worked. It meant he was graduating college when she was learning long division. It meant he was building a multi-million-dollar corporate empire while she was practicing for her elementary school spelling bee.
“You’re quiet, Cole,” Claire said, breaking the spell. She dipped her roller back into the tray, the muted shwick-shwick sound cutting through the crisp autumn air. “Did my math break your brain?”
“Your math is fine,” Nathan said, his voice dropping an octave as he climbed down. He landed with a heavy thud in his heavy-duty work boots. “The context is what’s missing.”
“Context.” Claire stopped rolling and turned to face him, leaning the handle against her hip. Her eyes, a sharp, clear hazel, pinned him in place. “You’re a man who bought a rotting farmhouse because you wanted to fix something. I’m a woman who inherited a rotting bakery because I wanted to save something. We’re both elbow-deep in other people’s deferred maintenance. Age is just more peeling paint, Nathan.”
“It’s not just paint,” he muttered, walking over to inspect her work. He crouched down to check the consistency of the exterior coat. His fingers brushed the rough wooden siding. “It’s life stages. It’s timelines. It’s…”
“It’s an excuse,” she interrupted smoothly.
Nathan snapped his head up. “Excuse?”
“You’re hiding behind a calendar, Cole. Everyone in Maple Hollow knows you’re a multi-millionaire who bought his father’s old land to play carpenter. They think you’re eccentric. I think you’re just terrified of letting anyone close enough to see the cracks in your own foundation.”
The words struck him with the physical force of a physical blow. For a second, he thought about Rebecca—about the sterile hospital room, the blinding fluorescent lights, and the way the world kept spinning on its axis while his stopped forever. He stood up slowly, towering over her by nearly a foot, his jaw tightening.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Claire.”
“I know you’ve eaten my cinnamon rolls three mornings a week for four months, and every single time, you leave exact change on the counter and walk out before I can say good morning,” she fired back, unblinking. “You’re observant, Nathan. But you’re a coward when it comes to living.”
She turned back to her wall, leaving him standing there in the cold Maple Hollow wind, the taste of ash in his mouth.
May you like
He didn’t say another word. He picked up his toolbox, threw his hammer inside with a sharp metallic clatter, and walked back across Main Street without looking back.
Little did he know, across the street, a dusty black sedan had been parked by the curb for twenty minutes. Inside, a pair of cold eyes watched him retreat through a cracked window, a sleek silver-plated smartphone recording every second of the exchange.
