Light streamed through narrow stained-glass windows, casting patches of color over the stone walls and wooden pews. The scent of candles and earth lingered in the air, grounding and strangely comforting.
Near the altar, Tay stood just off to the side at a simple wooden podium. Her voice was low, measured, and as she told the story about the chapel, she seemed mindful that it was a sacred place for many visitors.
“…actual name is Saint Catherine of Siena Chapel, but most people just call it by its nickname. It was built in 1936, designed to look like it was growing right out of the mountain. And I think they succeeded, don’t you?”
The members of our group nodded and murmured softly in agreement. I found myself walking a little slower as I followed Babs.
“This place is a testament to resilience,” Tay continued. “In 2013, the main buildings of the retreat center nearby were destroyed by a devastating flood. But the chapel…the chapel stayed standing. Even as the water rushed through the valley, it held its ground.”
I sank into a wooden pew, feeling the cold, smooth surface through my skirts as I listened. My eyes flicked up to the vaulted ceiling, over the long beams and the simple hanging chandeliers, and then back to the stone walls that seemed…timeless.
I wasn’t a religious person—definitely not Catholic—but I couldn’t deny there was something about this place, something that oddly enough, reminded me that the people I’d loved and lost might not be as lost as I’d imagined.
The feeling wrapped itself around me like a weighted blanket, and I would have relaxed if I hadn’t caught a movement at the back of the chapel.
My gaze shifted, and there he was again—Noah. He leaned against the stone wall near the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, his head bowed slightly as though deep in thought.
There was a heaviness to the set of his shoulders, a quiet melancholy that didn’t fit the man I’d met on the plane.
Noah. The name suited him. Soft, but also…strong.
I should have looked away, but instead, I found myself wondering what was going through his mind—what he was thinking.
And I really, really, wanted to know why he was on this tour. Was it possible he was just being a loving son? Could it be as simple as that?
Then, as if sensing that he was being watched, he glanced up, his eyes distant at first. For a second, it seemed like he didn’t see me at all. But then, just as I was about to turn away, his gaze focused, locking onto mine.
The moment stretched, too long, and my breath caught, my fingers tightening around the edge of the pew. Shaken, I forced an awkward smile. He blinked and looked away.
What the hell was that?
He’d looked…sad. And also…as lost as I felt.
Tay’s voice faded into the background as I sat there. Was I being fanciful? Was all this talk of love and ghosts and long-lost legends messing with my head? My eyes drifted toward Noah again, but he wasn’t looking back. Head down. Closed off.
Leo always said I overthought things. That I was too sensitive.
So had my mom. And it wasn’t the only opinion they’d shared.
And, not for the first time, the fact that my mom hadn’t really warmed to Leo struck me as strange. He checked all the boxes, didn’t he? College-educated, career-minded, stable. He was the one who’d insisted we take the show off the internet and onto TV. He said we needed to be more professional. That real success meant getting away from “influencer fluff” and doing something grown-up. Something that was real.
And I’d gone along with it—half because it sounded smart, and maybe, if I was being honest, half because I’d thought that’s what my mom wanted.
Not that I’d ever admit that to her.
Good gravy, I could barely admit it to myself.
Especially when her first response to my blow-up was to suggest a clerical job at an insurance office, or one of the hospitals in Providence—medical records, or billing, or something equally soul-killing.
Did she even know me?
And honestly, I was already doing a fine job criticizing myself; I didn’t need her help. My entire life, she has always been there to point out what I’d done wrong, happy to steer me in a more practical direction.
Dad had been different. He had been the one to soften the blows, to remind me I wasn’t a total failure. They’d been so different, my mom and dad. Sometimes, the fact that they’d stayed together so long seemed impossible.
My gaze drifted to Babs, to the way she carried Morty with her—not just in memory, but literally. His hat, his necklace. Pieces of him, always with her.
Had my mom loved my dad like that? Or had she just held on because that’s what she did? Because she wouldn’t let go, no matter what?
