CHAPTER 14
Gianna
Mary’s housewas exactly what I’d pictured when someone said “cozy cottage.” Small and warm, with wooden beams across the ceiling and floral wallpaper that should have been outdated but somehow worked. The smell hit me immediately when we walked in—fresh bread, herbs, something sweet baking that made my stomach remember I hadn’t eaten since this afternoon.
“Come in, come in,” Mary said, already taking our wet jackets and hanging them by the door. “You poor things, you must be frozen. I’ll get towels and blankets. Make yourselves comfortable.”
She disappeared down a hallway before either of us could respond, leaving Archie and me standing in her entryway dripping on hardwood floors that had probably been there for half a century.
“She moves fast for someone who looks seventy,” I said quietly.
Mary reappeared with an armful of towels and blankets, thrusting them at us with instructions to dry off and warm up while she heated soup. Then she was gone again, leaving us no room to protest or offer to help.
“I feel like we’ve been adopted,” I said, wrapping myself in one of the blankets.
“By a very determined grandmother who refuses to take no for an answer.” Archie dried his hair with a towel, making it stick up in different directions. “Could be worse.”
“Could be better. I could be at the interviews I was supposed to conduct.”
“Or we could be here, warm and dry with soup incoming.” He reached over and fixed a piece of my hair that had escaped my braid. “I’m voting for here.”
The living room had a fireplace already burning, flames crackling against logs that filled the room with warmth. Furniture that had clearly been loved for decades sat arranged around it—a worn couch with floral cushions, two armchairs that matched, a coffee table covered in magazines and photographs in mismatched frames.
I moved closer to look at the photos. Children at various ages, grandchildren I assumed, family gatherings where everyone looked genuinely happy to be together. And in a silver frame with a black ribbon attached, a man in military uniform looking young and serious and proud.
“That’s Harold,” Mary said, returning with two bowls of soup that smelled incredible. “My husband. Army, two tours in Vietnam. Came home and married me three weeks later.”
She handed us the bowls and settled into one of the armchairs like a queen claiming her throne, watching us with bright eyes that missed nothing.
“Eat,” she instructed. “You both look half-starved.”
I took a spoonful and nearly groaned. Whatever was in this soup, it was perfect. Warm and rich and exactly what I needed after hours in a freezing car.
“This is amazing,” Archie said, already halfway through his bowl.
“Family recipe. My grandmother taught me when I was eight.” Mary smiled. “So. How long have you two been married?”
I choked on my soup.
Immediately, Archie’s hand was on my back, rubbing gentle circles while I coughed and tried to breathe. My eyes watered and my throat burned and I could feel my face turning red.
“We’ve been together a few years,” Archie said smoothly, his hand never leaving my back. “Married recently though.”
His other hand found mine under the blanket and squeezed, and I could feel him fighting back laughter.
Mary beamed at us like we’d just given her the best news of her life. “I knew it. You have that newlywed look about you. All that unspoken communication, the way you gravitate toward each other without thinking about it.” She gestured at us with her spoon. “Harold and I were like that. Everyone said we were crazy—three weeks between meeting and marriage—but we knew.”
I finally got my breathing under control and shot Archie a look that promised retribution later. He just smiled innocently and squeezed my hand again, absolutely delighted with himself.
“How long were you married?” I asked Mary, deciding to go along with the charade rather than correct her and make things awkward.
“Fifty-two years. Would have been fifty-three this December, but he passed last spring.” Her expression stayed warm despite the sadness in her voice. “Best fifty-two years of my life though. Worth every minute.”
She talked about Harold for the next hour while we finished our soup and the fire crackled and the rain continued its assault outside. How they’d met at a church social, how he’d proposed after three weeks with a ring that belonged to his great grandmother, how everyone thought they were making a mistake but they’d known. Some things you just knew, she said.
I found myself leaning into Archie while she talked, and his arm came around my shoulders naturally, like we’d done this a thousand times before. I fit against him perfectly, my head on his shoulder and his warmth seeping into my bones.
“You two have that,” Mary said, gesturing at us. “That certainty. I can see it in how you look at each other.”
