Chapter Six- A Town That Never Forgets

SLOANE

By morning, everyone knows. They don’t know what happened. They just know something did.

That’s how towns like this work. They don’t need facts- just proximity and history and the way people look at you a second too long.

I feel it the moment I step off of the private elevator walking towards the hotel café.

“Good morning Ms. Hart.” Maya the hotel clerk from last night calls cheerily- does she live here? I think to myself as I give a polite wave and smile back.

As I enter the Cobblestone cafè, I notice it all. The pause in conversation. The flicker of curiosity. The barista’s smile that’s a little too knowing. What I noticed further was every detail that I had in a dream as a kid- one a poor girl from the wrong side of this town, with a criminal father and a mother that ran away could have never accomplished.

I look at the dining area with its cozy booths. On the perimeter- Smaller ones lead to large circular ones in each corner flanking the room. The center of the room is filled with wooden tables and chairs of all sizes. Every table setting has beautiful flowers and candles lit. The room is painted a light tan color with bookshelves occupying most of the area on each of the walls.

Off to the right side of the room is the coffee counter, one that is covered in cobblestone- it looks straight out of a fantasy movie. The sleek, expensive, and industrial coffee machines are a stark difference between the soft warm stones with the wood detail all around. The pastry cases are beautiful- made of mahogany and filled with any pastry you could imagine. Flaky croissants, every flavor of Muffin imaginable, fruit danishes, biscuits, fresh baked breads, donuts, pies and tarts and even cakes and cupcakes. Behind the check out counter you can see the serving window into a sleek, gourmet kitchen. Where plates piled high with bacon, eggs, omelettes and pancakes are being grabbed by servers and whisked to the tables.

I approach the counter and begin thinking of what to order. “Good morning,” the young woman working says brightly. “Mr. Whitmere was in early today.” Of course he was. I think as I scan the chalkboard menu of today’s specials

“Was he?” I reply lightly, even though my stomach tightens. “Mmhmm. Storm had him up half the night.”

I nod, pretending to be more interested in the pastry case instead of the implication hanging between us. “I’ll take an iced coffee- with brown sugar, oat milk and cream. I will also have one of the carrot cake muffins to go, please” I smile as a reply- I’m not getting into a discussion with a barista on why everyone in town already thinks I kept Rhett up all night.

“Thank you, Ms. Hart” she replies sweetly “coming right up” I grab my billfold to pull out my credit card and panic flashes in her eyes- “oh no Ms. Hart, Mr. Whitmere has said anything you want is on him, not to let you purchase anything on the grounds.” I pause for a second before I reply “of course he did, it must have slipped my mind after traveling yesterday that my firm negotiated that in my contract, as long as I’m here for the expansion.” And not because I’m sleeping with your boss after night one. She smiles sweetly at me. “Of course ma’am. I’ll get to work on that” she says as she rushes away from the counter. Why not add to the rumors Rhett? I think as I cross the dining hall to a place that I had seen earlier but wanted to take in, in person. A large fireplace was on the wall across the room from the kitchen and pastry counter. In front of it, a rich rug with green wingback chairs. On either side of the fireplace in alcoves- more books. Board games to be shared by families after Sunday breakfast. And on the wooden mantle- a little gold frame with a drawing of that exact fireplace, by fourteen year old me. I hold my breath until I feel someone tap at my shoulder. “Ms. Hart-“ a young male server smiles “your to go order. Please enjoy” I take it with a smile and turn to leave the cafè. I need fresh air.

By the time I carry my coffee and huge carrot cake muffin across the lobby and outside, down the path through the front lawn- back into town my phone is already buzzing.

Unknown Number:

Welcome back to town, Sloane.

I stare at the screen, pulse ticking up. Now who the hell is this?

Another message follows.

Saw you at the hotel last night. Hope you’re staying a while.

I lock the phone and toss it into my bag, whoever this is- I’m not dealing with it today. I need to find somewhere quiet and secluded. But, suddenly aware of every set of eyes on me as I cross the square. I should have worn a wig. And where are those damn sunglasses?

This is what I forgot. Not the buildings.

Not the memories. I forgot the way a small town never lets you be just you. It never lets you move on.

I make it through the hotel parking lot, and halfway down the block before I hear his deep voice.

“Sloane.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

Rhett is standing outside the hardware store, charcoal grey suit pants, and a black shirt this time- with black cowboy boots, not the brown ones from yesterday. His sleeves are rolled up, phone pressed to his ear mid conversation. He ends the call quickly, dropping his phone into his pocket. His gaze sweeping over me- eyeing my fitted black dress and sensible pumps, not stilettos today. He’s checking me, assessing me. like he’s making sure I’m still here. That I didn’t get right in my car and flee Oklahoma last night.. again.

“I was going to find you,” he says. “I figured,” I reply. “Your town found me first.” He pauses before speaking- “this is your town too, Sloane”

His mouth tightens.

“People talk. I’m sorry”

“They always did.” I reply- “But unlike you, my family doesn’t own this town. My family is definitely not who the county is named after. I'm nobody, I’m only somebody when it comes to my history with you.”

We stand there, the space between us suddenly public, exposed. Last night feels dangerously close and impossibly far away all at once.

“I shouldn’t have come to your room,” he says quietly. The words sting more than they should have. Does he regret it already? Does he want this or to just bury the past? His expression is unreadable, and when I think about it I feel like he doesn’t want this- want us back. But that thought is fleeting really when clearly I slept in a fantasy land, modeled after and fueled by teenage lust last night.

“I came to your office first, remember?” “I know you did.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “But now they’re watching. And when they watch, they assume.”

“And when they assume,” I say, “they judge.”

His eyes meet mine, sharp with frustration. “They don’t get to decide this.” His voice is rougher as he continues. “They already think they have, you should have seen your whole restaurant staff this morning.” I reply quietly. I turned my eyes to l both of our black shoes on the sidewalk. “That’s the problem here. One thing like a visit- between business partners, I might add. Whether it’s in a hotel room or an office- Then a free breakfast this morning. We are practically engaged.”

A pretty brunette woman walks by and waves at him. He nods back automatically, but his attention never leaves me.

“I’m not ashamed of you, of us. Of our past- even your family” he says. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.” I lift my head to meet his gaze as I step closer, lowering my voice.

“I’m afraid that this- us turns into something the town consumes. That before we even decide what we are, we’re already a story they’re telling without us.”

His expression softens. He looks like it hurts when he processes that statement. “You think I don’t know that?” he says. “I’ve lived here my whole life. You lived here your whole life until you ran away- I know what they do to things that matter to other people.”

“Then why didn’t you think about that last night?” I ask. The question lands harder than I meant it to. His jaw locks. He stares at me, brown eyes unwavering. “Because I was thinking about you,” he says simply. “And I’m not good at halfway when it comes to you. Never was.”

Silence stretches. People pass by. The world keeps moving. I take a deep breath before I start again.

“We need boundaries, Rhett.” I say. “At least for now.” His eyes darken- not with anger, but with disappointment and hurt he doesn’t bother hiding. “Strictly a professional relationship only?” he asks his question which sounds more like a statement to me. “Publicly,” I add to his statement- slash question. “Privately… we slow down.” He studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if slowing down is safer- or if it’s more dangerous. “Fine,” he says finally. “But don’t confuse distance with disinterest.” “I won’t,” I promise, giving him the best smile I could. He nods once, looks me over again then steps back, putting space between us like it costs him something. “I’ve gotta go Sloane- emergency repair at the hotel I need to complete before the board sees you at eleven.” “I wouldn’t miss it.” I reply. As he turns and walks away, I feel it again- that pull, that gravity that makes me want to follow him.

I step into Velour and Vine instead of chasing him. This was always a favorite place of mine in Whitmere county. It’s owned by Rhett’s mother- Elizabeth Whitmere. Once, when I was about 14 she told me that she built the store for herself to avoid her corporate family. No boardrooms, no investors, no meetings, no drama. I would often stop by after the downfall of my family, it was a safe space. When I step in, the bell rings above the door alerting everyone I was there. There’s a girl wrapping purchases in tissue paper at the counter- my favorite spot in the boutique. It’s a long, natural wood counter with vines running through the entire front, all illuminated by a LED sign of the logo.

Women are scattered about looking at items from clothing, to scented candles and bath products, to home decor, and made in Oklahoma turquoise jewelry. There are a few ladies in the corner arranged at tables that house the refreshment area sipping from dainty white teacups with green vines, others sipping mimosas from tall champagne glasses. “Thats her,” a tall blonde woman sitting with a shorter blonde woman whispers, and not under her breath. “The one from the scandal. I hear she’s already saying with Rhett.” They both smile “of course she is, where else would she land?”

My throat tightens as I turn around and head for the door. I’ll catch Elizabeth later.

The town may think it knows our story. They may think they know why I’m back here, why I even agreed to this job. But what scares me most? They might be right about one thing. Some loves were never meant to be quiet. Some people were never meant to be separated.