Novels by EstherJames62327

Richard didn’t remember turning onto his street. He didn’t even remember slowing the car.He only realized he’d come home when the headlights washed over the columns of the Abbott house—their house now, technically, though the thought made something inside him twist.The porch light was on.!Warm. Soft. Waiting. His breath caught.Monet always turned it on for him. Even on the nights he didn’t come home until late. Even before he ever knew she cared.He sat in the parked car, the engine ticking, his hands limp on the steering wheel.He hadn’t meant to leave. He hadn’t meant to run away from their home..But the truth was uglier than the excuses he’d been rehearsing in his head; he had seen the look she'd given Hannah’s things, and something inside him had cracked open with a sound he couldn’t bear anyone to hear.Not even her. Especially not her.He dragged his palms down his face and exhaled shakily. The porch light stayed steady. Soft. Beckoning.Like a hand reaching for him.He step

Richard didn’t even remember grabbing his keys. One moment he was staring at the stairs Monet had disappeared up, the flowers still in the vase by the counter. Next, he was outside, the cool air hitting him like a reprimand. He wasn’t running from her. Not from Monet. He was running from himself. The engine purred to life, but he didn’t pick a destination. He drove—past the bakery Meredith loved, past the school, past the park that was very close to the cemetery where Hannah was buried. He kept driving until the familiar roads blurred into backstreets he hadn’t visited in years. His phone buzzed once. Then again. He ignored it. He just needed to think. Or stop thinking. He wasn’t sure which. --- Back at the Abbott House Florence didn’t knock. She never had to. The housekeeper let her in with a knowing smile and a murmured, “They’re upstairs, ma’am.” Florence Abbott—elegant, sharp-eyed, wrapped in a soft lavender shawl—moved through the foyer with the accuracy of a

The door closed behind Juliet with a soft thud, and the rumble of the moving truck started again. Dust motes shifted in the strip of sunlight across the foyer floor. Richard stood there with the shoebox in his hands. Monet didn’t move. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t step closer. She simply folded into herself—shoulders curving slightly inward, hands twisting together, eyes lowered to the floor instead of his face. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just quiet. A quiet so soft and deep that it scraped something raw inside him. Richard’s throat tightened. He set the shoebox down carefully, almost reverently, and turned toward her. “Monet…” She didn’t flinch. She didn’t wipe her eyes. She just blinked once and gave him the faintest, polite nod like she was bracing for another blow that hadn’t yet fallen. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You should do what you need to do.” That sentence landed like a stone. Richard felt it. He felt every ounce of resignation in it—every quiet retr

Monet heard the footsteps before she saw him.Heavy. Slow. Not physically strained—just weighted.Richard appeared at the top of the stairs with four boxes stacked in his arms, another three hovering behind him in a precarious tower Juliet was pushing gently down each step.Monet’s breath caught.The foyer looked… wrong.Too full. Too raw.Like the house was bleeding out pieces of someone who’d once filled it.Richard dropped the first stack at the foot of the stairs, the thud echoing far louder than it should have.He didn’t look at Monet.Not once.His jaw was clenched—not with anger, but with a bracing, controlled kind of grief that made his shoulders look too tight for his frame.Juliet reached the bottom carefully, setting her boxes beside his. She didn’t touch them. She didn’t open them. She just stood still for a moment, hand on the top flap, breathing like she was keeping herself from breaking in front of strangers.Monet stayed near the kitchen doorway, fingers twisted in the

Monet was wiping down a clean counter—again—just trying to control the trembling in her hands, when the low rumble outside made her look up.A truck.A moving truck.Her stomach turned.Before she could call for Richard, the doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Sharp, urgent, but not rude.Carter looked up from his sketchpad in the living room. “Who’s that?”Monet forced a smile that felt like it would crack. “Stay there, baby. I’ll check.”She opened the door.Juliet Pendleton stood on the porch, wrapped in a dark shawl despite the mild day, hair pinned up tight, chin lifted. Her eyes were soft around the edges but swollen. She had been crying.Behind her, the moving truck idled.Monet’s heart thudded painfully. “Mrs. Pendleton…”All the twigs of olive branches they'd been building since her return, snapped in all of the soft places. Juliet didn’t wait for pleasantries. “I called Richard. He said he’s home.” Her voice wavered, almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t want to just… take things. I thou

The house was warm with afternoon sunlight, the kind that softened every sharp edge and made the Abbott home feel almost unreal in its coziness. Monet stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, whisking cupcake batter in a glass bowl. Carter sat cross-legged on a stool, his cast propped on a cushion, supervising with a seriousness that made her bite back a smile.“More sprinkles,” he declared, tapping the counter dramatically.“We’re making cupcakes, not a rainbow explosion,” Monet teased.“But it’s my birthday soon,” he said with the confidence of a king stating law.“Your birthday is in five days,” she reminded him gently. “Five whole days of behaving well so you get everything you asked for.”He grinned. “I behave well now.”Monet raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”He giggled, then reached over to dip a finger in the batter. Monet gasped and swatted at his hand, pretending to be scandalized. He shrieked with laughter, clutching his cast to his chest.The sound of him laughing—reall