Diane smiled. “I had a good teacher.”
“Your husband?”
“He was always better with the business side of things.” She refilled his coffee, her hands steady but her voice wavering. “After he died, I tried to do everything myself. Every damn thing. Thought I owed it to him, you know? To prove I could handle it alone.”
Jake stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“It almost killed me.” She laughed, bitter. “Literally. I was in the hospital with exhaustion and dehydration when you called me last summer. The bank letter had been sitting on my counter for three weeks. I hadn’t even opened it.”
“What changed?”
Diane looked out the window at the bare orchard. “My daughter drove down from Chattanooga. Told me I was being an idiot. That Robert would’ve wanted me to ask for help, not work myself to death trying to honor his memory. So I called you.”
Jake thought of Wes, grinding himself down to nothing.
“It’s hard to ask for help when you’re used to carrying everything yourself.”
“Damn near impossible.” Diane stood, cutting him a slice of pie without asking. “But you know what’s harder? Losing everything because you were too proud to admit you needed help.”
The pie was still warm, apples tender and sweet with a hint of nutmeg. Jake ate slowly, thinking about Wes’s workshop and the desperate way they’d come together—like they’d both been starving for something neither could name.
“This is incredible,” he said.
“Robert’s recipe. I’m finally able to make it again without crying.” She sat back down, studying him. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one my daughter gets when she’s trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a neat answer.” Diane tilted her head. “Let me guess. Small town, holiday season, someone caught your eye who shouldn’t have?”
Jake nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
“Honey, I’ve lived here my whole life. Nothing stays secret in Spoon for long. And you’ve gotguiltywritten all over your face.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “It’s one of your other clients, isn’t it?”
“I really shouldn’t?—”
“The Christmas tree farmer?”
Jake’s silence was answer enough.
Diane laughed, delighted. “Oh, I knew it. Wes Dalton, right? Big guy, beard, looks like he could wrestle a bull and win?”
“We’re not—it’s not—” Jake stammered, then gave up. “How did you know?”
“I saw Cassie Wan at the Rialto Tuesday night–Gladiator II. Pedro Pascal. Ha-cha-cha.” She lifted her arms, pretending to show off her biceps. “When I mentioned working with you, she said that you were working with him as well. It’s not so hard to put two and two together.”
“I guess not,” Jake admitted.
Her expression softened. “He’s a good man, Jake. Stubborn as hell, works himself to the bone, but he's good.”
“I know.”
“His mother, Linda, was one of my closest friends. We grew up together, went to school together. Watched our kids grow up together.” Diane’s smile turned sad. “Losing her hurt him and his father terribly. Henry had his first little stroke—TIA, they call ‘em–two weeks after she died. It was the stress of watchingher suffer, I’m sure. And Wes just… closed up. Stopped carving, stopped dreaming, stopped living anything resembling a life. Just works all the time.”
Jake thought of Wes’s hands, rough and calloused. The chainsaw carvings locked away in his workshop. The way he’d looked when Jake called him an artist, like he’d forgotten that’s what he was.
“He’s trying to change,” Jake said quietly. “Slowly.”
“Good. He deserves to be happy.” Diane reached across the table, patting Jake’s hand. “So do you.”
