Note: Just got back from visiting a friend at her college, and I know that means I'm later, but Saturay is Saturday. Unless you're in Australia, in which case Saturday is Sunday. Anyway, I am in desperate need of more finished chapters, so...if I don't reply to your reviews this time, I have good excuse. Haha.

Chapter Thirteen: Loose Ends

"Dear Claire,

I do not write this letter to forgive you, nor do I write it to accuse you for what you've done. Frankly, I'm tired of such things. We've been alone a season now, and during this time, I've realized something desperately important to me—I want to hear the truth. I don't want sugarcoated lies, Claire, but I do want to hear what happened from your perspective. Despite how things stand, I've loved you, and you have loved me. I cannot deny that fact, for if I do, I'm fairly certain that life as I know it would cease to have meaning. I…I need you to tell me, in no uncertain terms, what happened. I'm tired of harboring grudges, of weighing guilt of the unknown on both our shoulders. Please, no matter what happens, let the break between us have an opportunity to bridge one last time.

I leave the rest up to you.

Trent."

Claire bit her lip so hard it bled, the strange mineral taste seeping onto her tongue. Her hands tied themselves in knots in her lap, indecision twisting her thoughts this way and that. "W-well?" she asked finally. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Gina repeated, brow furrowed. "Hm. Well, I must say that if I were you, I'd consider myself a very, very lucky woman. Not many people in your position get thrown a lifesaver like this. At the very least, his letter tells you one thing."

"What?" Claire insisted. "What does it mean?"

"That somewhere," the nurse smiled, "deep in his heart, he still cares about you. Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call it love, but I definitely think you should reply."

It had been the answer Claire had both been hoping for and dreading. Gina had called it something like an "approach-avoidance" scenario: choosing a possibly good thing versus a definite bad thing. On the one hand, replying to the letter might spark some sort of connection between the two of them that had been lacking. On the other, if Trent didn't like what she had to say, it could result in further separation.

"You can't forget, though," Gina reminded her, "that saying nothing in reply will leave you exactly where you are. And whether you want to stay there is up to you, Claire."

In a selfless act of mercy, Gina had stepped out to let Claire make the decision for herself. So, for a few hours, the blonde stared down a single piece of paper. Occasionally, she'd lift a shaking pen to its page, then pull it back as if the ink might cause the paper to catch fire.

Writers made it seem so easy, with their one-hundred-fifty-thousand word novels: scribbling away all those words, and then doing it all again, over and over, without a care in the world. Had a book ever held the writer's fate in its hands? Had it ever had the power to save a relationship, or to sweep together its remains?

"What'cha doing?" Kate cocked her head at Claire from the doorway and frowned. "You haven't watered the plants today."

"I—I know. I'll do it later."

"No. You won't," she stated. It didn't seem to bother the girl, though, as she crept over to study the paper in front of Claire on the table. "Um. It's a blank piece of paper."

The farmer nodded. "I'm writing a letter."

"Oh." Kate looked at it again, then back at Claire. "You're not doing much of the writing part."

Claire bit her lip. "I know. I'm just trying to figure out what to say, I guess."

Kate propped her elbows on the table and frowned. Turning her head towards the woman, she quipped, "Are you like this when you talk, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think and think about what you're going to say before you say it?" Kate inquired. "Cause, well, I don't. And I figure letters aren't too different. Just…write stuff. The stuff you're thinking right now, anyway. Like, don't write something random about sports or whatever." She made a face. "Hugh always does that when we're talking. It's so boring."

Write what you're thinking? Claire almost laughed; oh, there were too many thoughts swirling in this mind of hers, too many to name on this tiny sheet. Then again. "I guess it's worth a try." Kate's cat began to rub against Claire's legs as she hesitantly brought the pen down, writing the first of the letters that would shape her future, for better or worse.

No turning back now. No more running away.

Skye glanced at the trees about him and shifted baby Claire in his arms. "Nice to go for a walk, isn't it?" he cooed into her ear, and the girl babbled out some nonsense in reply. For some reason, Gwen had shooed him out of the inn that day, and the thief hadn't a clue as to why. "Go exploring or something," she'd ordered him. "It's a nice village—go see more of it!"

Well, he couldn't argue with her; the village was quite lovely this time of year. Back in Forget-Me-Not, the town had only been sprinkled with snowflakes, but in Flowerbud the ground was knee-deep with the stuff. The little darlings of the town—Meryl and Tim—had already made good use of it; snowangels and snowmen were rampant wherever one chose to look. Others, most notably Saibara, had begun shoveling out their doorways and muttering how winter always brought back pain with it.

Still. Today, people looked more cheerful—and Skye couldn't quite blame it on winter's pink flush. "What do you think, little one?" he questioned his charge. "Why's everyone so happy today?"

"Afternoon, Steiner!" The thief stiffened at the booming greeting and turned to see Bob, a smile spread wide on his face. "You taking the baby girl for a walk?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "I am."

Yet his efforts at escape were thwarted as Bob immediately joined him, matching stride with ease. "So, how you liking it here, Steiner?"

"Well enough."

"Mhm, it's a nice little place," Bob agreed with a nod. "Beautiful scenery, some of the nicest people you'll ever meet, and great, great food." He laughed. "I'm sure Gwen's given you enough of that last part."

Skye forced a laugh in reply; he'd never had a versatile sense of humor, had he? "I suppose you could say that."

"Yeah, Gwen's a good sort," the man continued with a nod. "Real sweet dependable girl. Aren't enough women like her around, right, Steiner?"

The thief copied Bob's nod suspiciously. "Everyone likes Gwen."

"Oh, to be sure, to be sure, but"—and here the racer clapped Skye on the back—"Gwen doesn't like everyone back, do you understand what I'm saying?" Bob's tone remained playful, but an urgency laid beneath it that Skye, master of lies, could catch all too well. "I hear you went with her to the Full Moon Festival."

"I hear that I wasn't her first choice," Skye returned evenly.

"And I hear the odds have changed since then." The rancher paused, tickled baby Claire under the chin, and added, "Steiner, I know we haven't gotten as close as we could be, but I hope you know that I care about Gwen. I'd be willing to bet that's the one thing we have in common, right? Gwen." His voice lowered. "I need to know, for myself, exactly how you see her. I reckon you can tell me that much, can't you?"

Skye pursed his lips in thought, hard blue eyes turning from this man to the child in his arms. Images flashed through his mind: blurred memories unraveling at the edges. Why should he tell this man what he hadn't even answered for himself? Why should he say anything? Admit anything?

Feel anything?

"When it comes to Gwen," Skye spoke softly, "there is no one I trust more. Whether or not I find myself worthy of her trust is an entirely different matter."

Bob allowed a weak grin. "You're a funny one, Steiner. It's never yes or no with you, is it?"

"Never." The word came out bitter, poisonous on his tongue. "No, it's never that simple."

"Well," Bob sighed as he turned away, "I hope things do get simpler for you. Because…whether or not you think you deserve her trust…you have it, Steiner. So, if I were you, I'd make sure not to waste it."

Snow fell in a white curtain all around him, but even so, Skye found himself wishing he could be blind enough to think such chances still existed in this twisted, complex world of pitch black deceit.

Gina Aires officially pissed Nami off. She could chalk that up to her far-too-personal approach on everything, or on her too-orderly clothes and luggage, but Nami preferred to pinpoint the second that Gina had started bringing visitors upstairs as the moment they became unofficial enemies.

Sprawled out on her bed, Nami had been trying to read a novel but instead found the words swimming before her eyes; the case still nagged at her, little details begging to be attended to. Details that, unfortunately, she had no facts to illuminate. Skye's whereabouts. Skye's intentions. Skye's explanation for kidnapping a child instead of just punching in the face of Claire's fiancé.

"Oh! Nami, I didn't expect you to be here at this time of day."

The redhead raised an eyebrow as the nurse entered, blushing with surprise beneath her glasses. "I don't exactly have a fixed schedule," Nami retorted. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"It's not a disappointment at all! It's just…" Gina smiled and turned to the hallway to mutter some sort of apology to an unseen companion.

"No, no, I kind of expected it," a voice laughed in response. "It's fine. Just grab what you need and we'll be off. I don't need to come in."

That voice…! The book lowered in Nami's hands with a strangled groan. Gina hadn't. Gina couldn't have, of all people—

"Gustafa, it's no trouble. Come on in, we have nothing to hide!"

Aw, hell no.

The big green eyesore walked through the doorway just as easy as you please, tipping his hat to the redhead with a formality that, frankly, irked her. "Nice to see you, Detective Nami Stone."

"Shut up. I'm reading." Nami held the text closer, trying valiantly to remember what the hell the plot was about, anyway. Good guys versus bad guys? Something like that? None of her treasured nonfiction lingered around Forget-Me-Not, unfortunately. This genre crap was the only thing she could find.

Gina, meanwhile, was rummaging through the drawers. "Oh, dear…I know I have a scarf somewhere, I promise, it's just..."

"It's fine. We don't need to rush," the musician assured her. Then, smiling wryly, he added to the girl eavesdropping from the bed, "I invited Gina to join me for a look-see around the area. A grand tour of sorts, I guess you could say."

"So that'll be done in, what, five minutes?" The detective snorted. "There's not much to see here."

"Forgive her. She has no imagination," Gustafa confided to his companion. "I've been looking for the cure for years."

Nami rolled her eyes. "Forgive him. He has no sense of humor."

That actually got a chuckle out of the man, and Gina let out a little, "Oh!" as she pulled a long blue banner from her bag. "Found the scarf, Gustafa! Sorry to trouble you."

"No worries." His eyes ran up and down Nami's figure and he commented, "If anyone should be apologizing, I think I ought to say something to this fine young lady."

Nami brought down her book ever so slightly, eyebrows raised. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I just wanted to say that you're right about one thing." An unsure grin spread across his face, and he spoke, levelly, "I won't give up. It's a losing battle, but it's my battle, isn't it? I've thought a lot about what you told me, and that's my verdict." A laugh. "I'm just not a quitter, huh?"

Gina turned a confused face to first Nami, then Gustafa, before the former snorted once more and laid down on her bed. "Whatever. Do what you want. I don't care anymore."

"I've noticed." Taking Gina by the arm, Gustafa started for the door before pausing just a moment more. "Oh, and Nami?"

"Yeah?"

A smile. "Your book is upside-down."

"You're awfully busy today."

Gwen blew the hair from her face, cursing her ponytail for, today of all days, failing her. "Yes, Uncle Doug, I'm busy. So if you could leave, that would be amazing."

Instead, the innkeeper picked up a bowl splattered with batter and raised an eyebrow. "Baking, are we?" She bit her lip and ignored his pointed look. "Your flour-covered face says yes, you're baking. So." He sat himself down and smiled. "Who's the guy?"

"Wh-what?" The pan almost slipped from her fingers as Gwen froze, cheeks a decided shade of red. "Uncle Doug, I'm a cook. I mean, doing these sorts of things is kind of what I do."

"Cooking, yes. Now baking…"

"Oh, come on. Can't a girl expand her horizons a bit without being labeled lovesick?" She frowned and wiped her brow; the heat from the oven was stifling, even at this time of year. "For your information, I'm just testing something."

"Is that so?"

"It is so, Uncle Doug. And why you care about my love life is beyond me. Seriously, I can't bring you any grandchildren—what do you call your niece's children, anyway? Second niece twice removed?" She paused and cocked her head to the left. "Or is it first removed…?"

Doug gazed at the cake in her hands and sighed. "Gwen, seeing as what your hypothetical kids are to me doesn't matter, I'm just going to be blunt. This cake isn't for me, is it?"

She laughed. "Okay, no, I'll admit that it isn't."

"But it's for someone."

"Well." Gwen shrugged. "Cakes do like being eaten." Taking a serving knife, she pried the cake out of its metal cage and plopped it onto a white rimmed plate. The crumbs were dumped onto her open hand and Gwen ate them in one mouthful, grinning. "And there are people who like eating them."

"Huh. So…this person who likes cakes…wouldn't happen to be male, would he?"

"Uncle Doug, drop it. Seriously." He fingered his moustache and Gwen stood, hands on hips, staring him down. To her surprise he said nothing, and she began to fidget under his gaze. "Well? What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Doug replied simply. "It's just…I'm remembering when I caught your mom baking a cake like this, that's all." At this Gwen's bravado vanished, and the man continued, "She got so mad when I walked in. Madder than you, actually. 'Doug, I swear to the Goddess if you tell anyone I'm doing this, I'll beat you with a frying pan.' She'd never baked anyone a Thanksgiving cake outside the family. She spent hours trying to get it right—because she cared about her young man, just like you seem to."

Gwen wet her lips, finding her mouth suddenly dry. "Mom used to make the best cakes. I remember my dad would say how that's how she'd won his heart—she'd won his stomach first." The laugh came easier than she'd thought it would; the smile came through genuine. "I guess I always had some…silly girlish fantasy…of finding my husband that way." A chuckle. "Cooking, of all things."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and blushed, memories of a lovely blonde woman busying herself at the stove dancing through her mind. Of sweet smells of cinnamon and sugar mixed with caramel, of chocolate and vanilla and peanut butter permeating the air. "Sorry, I'm just—yeah, it's silly. Sorry, Uncle Doug."

"Not so silly," Doug disagreed. "After all, it worked for a certain woman we both loved, didn't it?" He clapped her on the back and smiled, Gwen hugging him in return. "Besides, any boy stupid enough to turn you down isn't worth your time. And any boy who hates your cooking has no taste buds."

"I love you, Uncle Doug," she whispered as she squeezed him tight. Her red eyes gazed up at him and she promised, "As soon as this one's done, I am making you a cake. I swear. Thanksgiving isn't just about friends and…more than friends…is it? There's family, too."

Doug nodded and ruffled her hair. "You don't have to, Gwen. But I'll look forward to it." At that moment, a little squeak sounded from the front door, and the two paused in their embrace to see a familiar young man and child enter the room. "Well," Doug announced, letting go, "I believe you have more pressing business right now, don't you?"

"I think I do," Gwen agreed softly. Then with a quick kiss on the cheek, she turned to the cake on the counter before saying, "Steiner? How do you feel about cake?"

"Do you…do you believe in psychoanalysis?"

Gina smiled at her patient's ashen face, and replied, "Well, I consider myself more on the humanist end, but I can see enough ties between past and present to agree with some of Freud's theories."

"Oh." Claire fumbled a bit with a pen and attempted a grin. "See, I've been thinking. About what you said." A beat. "Maybe I did come here because of my father. I suppose it's only natural to want to come back to my family's roots…after all, my father said we've had this farm for generations."

"That must bring on a lot of pressure," Gina commented.

"In some ways, yes. In others, not really." Claire paused as she studied Gina for a moment, starting again, "I don't think this farm was the problem at all. I think it was more of…this strange desire of my father's to rise above his humble beginnings. And I never really wondered until I grew up why it mattered so much. He lived a more lucrative life, yes, but he rarely seemed happy. 'Keep working,' he'd tell me, 'keep studying, keep striving. Don't you want to succeed and be happy, like I have?' I never asked him, though…" She shook her head and sighed. "I never asked him why, if he was so successful, he always seemed so frustrated and disappointed."

Gina nodded, her braids bouncing. "It's been my experience with patients that what they think makes them happy is different than what actually does."

"My mom said something like that," Claire agreed. "She'd tell me that if I could see my father in his youth, I'd barely recognize him. He loved this old farm," she murmured, "and yet he threw it all away for my mother. She was ill, did I tell you that?"

The nurse shook her head no. "That must have been difficult for your family."

"It's why my father was so obsessed with success. I didn't realize it until I got older, but I think he would never have moved if he could have afforded medicine by farming. But even though he could this way, she still got worse day by day…and she still died."

Both stared silently into their teacups, thoughts spinning yet lips shut tight. Claire cleared her throat and smiled, sipping the drink slowly before cupping it in her lap. "Miss Aires, my father made mistakes with me, I know that now. And he made mistakes with himself, too. I don't pretend to be perfect…but I want to fix my problems. I want baby Willow to come back to a better mother than before, and, at the very least, I want to admit that I can't do this alone. Changing is something only I can do, but being forgiven…? No. I can't do anything but apologize."

"Admitting you're wrong is a big step, though," Gina reminded her. "You can't fix something that you don't know is broken."

"But you can collect the pieces, at least." The farmer closed her eyes, breathing in the comfortable smells that reminded of a baby's laughter, of a husband's embrace. Of burned breakfasts, of kisses good-bye, of birthday cake and anniversary wine. These had haunted her, once. But now? "It's in the mail," Claire announced, standing up. "I've sent him what little I can, and now it's up to him." The teacup trembled in her hands and she smiled, weakly. "In your expert opinion, Miss Aires, is it…okay…to be scared?"

"You don't even need to ask that question," Gina assured her, and Claire nodded.

"That's good. Because I've never been so terrified."

"I guess I owe you much more than a letter.

If I were you, I'd probably wad this into a ball and toss it into the nearest trashcan. After all, from your point of view, that's exactly what I did to the love you gave me. I gave it a passing glance, saw something better, and threw it away for something shiny. But…but I didn't, not entirely. Yes, I hurt you, Trent, and I hurt me, but in a moment I'd erase it all if I could. Ha, that's so easy to write, isn't it? 'I'd erase it all if I could.' I can't, so I guess I shouldn't even be bothering with words like that. You probably stopped reading right there.

You told me once that you'd trust me when I gave you reason to. I don't think what I'm about to do makes me deserving of that, but I think you deserve to know the truth. You've done nothing wrong; I have. It may be too late to be honest, but here goes.

I did betray you. I did, a week after our first date, wind up in this…crazy game of cat-and-mouse with that thief, Skye. He taunted me, you know, whenever he came by my farm. Part of me liked it. There was a part of me that tensed when he came near, that made fireworks explode inside my heart. Now, I've learned that fireworks and love aren't the same thing. If Skye had loved me, he never would have taken my—our—baby. If I hadn't been such a foolish girl, we'd be all together in this house, living the innocent life we've both ached for.

But there's one more side to the story that people keep forgetting, Trent. I left him for you. It scared me to the core to do it, but I knew I didn't love him. I loved you. He—I don't know how to prove it to you: that he was just a chemical reaction, nothing that I should've let stand in our way. If I'd stayed with Skye, Trent, I think—no, I know—I would have been a thousand times more miserable than I am, right now, alone in this house.

…I know it doesn't matter now, but I still love you, Trent. More than you will ever know.

I understand that this doesn't change anything. I accept that. I don't blame you for leaving me. Love is all about trust, isn't it? I ruined that. I take the blame. Forgive me or don't: I put that in your hands. I find they tend to be more capable than mine.

Claire."

"Well, Trent?" Elli called from the hallway. "Did you get the mail?"

His hand moved from the letter to his hair, pulling at tufts before returning to the paper on his desk. The words smiled at him and he couldn't diagnose this feeling going through his veins—this blatant fear tinted with shock and disbelief. Was it a happy feeling, a sad one?

…But a feeling—any feeling—was something he'd been lacking all the same, wasn't it?

"Trent?"

"I…I got a letter." Trent swallowed. "From someone I haven't seen in a while."

"Oh?" Elli asked innocently. "From who?"

Trent's hand hesitated over the phone. How long had it been since he'd heard her voice? Longer still since he'd heard her laugh? If he could just speak to her—but speaking before had gotten him nothing. Before, she'd lied.

But she wasn't lying now.

"A relative I don't want to be so distant anymore," Trent replied, and with an unsure hand, dialed a number he still hadn't quite forgotten.