Page 28 of Leave a Mark
Marcelle blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And one guy brought firewood.” Lee remembered a man and his sons unloading it on their back patio.
“But your dad had a private practice. He didn’t work at a charity hospital.”
“That doesn’t mean he never took charity cases,” Lee said truthfully. “Sometimes, patients pay with what they have. And sometimes they want to say thank you. Wren might have died without that surgery.”
Even as he said the words, Lee wanted to wipe them out of his mouth. And not just because he was hiding something. The truth was Wren could have died, and the thought gnawed at him.
“Well, what did she give you, anyway?" Marcelle frowned at the lumpy bag he held. “It looks greasy.”
“It’s fried peach pies. Want one?” He opened the bag and reached inside. The warm, sweet aroma grew, and he drew out one golden, hand-sized pie.
“Fried pie?That’s disgusting.” She eyed him in horror. “You aren’t really going to eat that, are you?”
“Hell, yes. They’re still warm.”
Marcelle turned on her heel. “Too bad you don’t have a side of cracklin’ and blood sausage to go along with it. I’m making myself a salad. Enjoy your dinner.” Then she disappeared inside.
Even though Lee knew Marcelle’s words had been meant to prick him, he couldn’t blame her. Wren’s inexplicable visit had threatened her, and his girlfriend always turned mean when threatened. He’d have to reassure her later, but now, he needed a minute.
Lee crossed the porch and settled himself onto the cypress swing. The pastry in his hand looked just like the ones his mom had made when he was a kid. Even the fork ridges on the seam were the same.
He brought the pie to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled memories of their old house on Roselawn. Thanksgiving… his mom’s blue apron with the yellow daisies… King, their golden retriever, napping in front of the stove…
Despite the knot in his throat, Lee took a bite of the pie with his eyes still closed.
“Mmm… Mama.”
The word fell from his lips without warning, wrecking him. Hot tears followed. The taste was exactly the same. The buttery crispness. The tart bite of peach softened with syrup. The warmth. It tasted like home.
Lee hadn’t savored anything like it in twenty-one years.
He cleared his throat, swallowed the bite, and wiped his eyes, letting the moment pass. He took another bite, coming back to the present. It was damn good pie.
Enjoying another bite, he looked down at the bag and noticed the drawing for the first time. Lee stilled. A tawny brown and white bird carried a peach in its beak. The fruit almost outweighed the little wren, who seemed to pump her wings furiously to stay aloft.
She flew toward a tree in the distance. But it wasn’t an oak or a pine or even a peach tree. Lee was pretty sure it was a hawthorn.
“Oh wow,” he said around a mouthful.
Chills broke out over his chest and down his arms. It wasn’t because he sat outside in the evening breeze without a shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.
He’d heard the knock on his front door as he’d pulled on his jeans after his shower, and he’d sent Marcelle to answer it. And then the sound of her voice had teased him. Lee had recognized it, but he hadn’t imagined for a second that Wren would turn up on his doorstep. He’d rushed across the house for reasons he didn’t want to name.
Now, sitting on his porch swing, he examined the confluence of feelings. He didn’t know which was more unsettling: that he’d raced to the door to see her again, or that he’d raced there to protect her from Marcelle. His girlfriend would never welcome someone who looked like Wren.
Either way, he’d been too late. By the time he reached the door, Wren’s face had been a mask of misery, and she’d fled as soon as she laid eyes on him.
And by the looks of it, she’d cooked for him all afternoon. As if that weren’t enough, she’d made for him something so personal, so precious that he’d been brought to tears. In a chance encounter in the grocery store, Wren had listened to him utter only two sentences about his childhood, yet she’d heard everything.
Lee rested his elbows on his knees so he could cradle the stirring he felt in his chest. He’d have to set it aside later, but for now, he let himself feel it. Feel her.
He couldn’t remember a time when someone had given him such a gift. So unexpected. So sweet. The warm ache it gave him spread throughout his body.
But what wasshefeeling now?
Lee pressed a hand to his chest. The look she’d worn when she’d apologized —apologized —for her gift pierced him. It told him so much. The shame in her eyes spoke of rejection. And, as kind as her gift was, there was more behind it than kindness. Did it mean attraction?
