Chapter 3 - THE DRIPPING SPRINGS ENCOUNTER
By noon, Grant had left, slamming the screen door with a force that rattled the windowpanes. He hadn't pressed the issue further—guilt is a heavy anchor, and the photograph had clearly cut through his armor.
Mason refused to speak for hours, retreating to the backyard to sit beneath the pecan tree with a sketchbook he rarely opened anymore. I watched him from the kitchen window, his pencil moving in short, jagged strokes across the paper. He was drawing the old tire swing we had taken down two summers after Rosie passed—a symbol of a childhood that had frozen in time.
Needing air and desperate to clear my own racing thoughts, I drove out to Dripping Springs around two o'clock. I didn't plan on crashing their cake tasting, but my car seemed to have a mind of its own, steering toward the rustic converted barn venue where Claire and Grant were holding their planning session.
The venue was stunning—limestone walls, fairy lights strung across cedar beams, and large glass doors opening out onto a manicured lawn overlooking the Texas hill country. Through the window, I saw Claire sitting at a rustic farm table covered in fabric swatches and flower catalogs. Next to her, Harper was dipping a plastic spoon into a miniature cup of raspberry frosting.
And Grant was standing by the window, staring out at the horizon with a phone pressed tightly to his ear.
I parked my sedan beneath a live oak tree and walked up the stone pathway. As I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the sweet scent of vanilla and buttercream hit me, instantly clashing with the bitter reality of the morning.
Claire looked up first, her smile bright and practiced—the smile of a woman who managed corporate accounts and wedding spreadsheets with equal ruthless efficiency.
"Evelyn! Oh, I'm so glad you made it," Claire called out, standing to greet me with a polished cheek-to-cheek hug. "Grant said Mason wasn't feeling well, but we were hoping you'd both join us. We're picking the floral centerpieces next."
"Thank you, Claire," I said gently, pulling back. "Where is Grant?"
"On the phone with the caterer," Claire sighed, though her smile didn't waver. "Something about the gluten-free options for my aunt. Honestly, planning a wedding with a blended family is like walking through a minefield. Did Grant talk to Mason this morning? He came back from your house looking like he'd seen a ghost."
Before I could answer, Grant walked over from the corner, his phone still in his hand. His expression was tight, guarded, and unmistakably defensive.
"Mom. What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing around the room as if worried someone might overhear us.
"We need to talk, Grant," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Without Claire's wedding binders, without cake samples, and without pretending that everything is fine."
Claire’s smile faltered, her eyes darting between us. "Is this about Mason? Look, Evelyn, I love Mason, I really do. But he pushed Harper yesterday. If he has behavioral issues, maybe he needs to see a specialist. We can't have him acting out when the rest of the family—"
"Claire," Grant interrupted, his voice sharp enough to make her stop mid-sentence. "Give us a minute. Please."
Claire blinked in surprise, her corporate composure cracking just a fraction. "Grant, we're in the middle of—"
"Just give us five minutes outside," he repeated, firmer this time.
May you like
She pressed her lips into a thin line, took Harper by the hand, and walked toward the tasting kitchen in the back, casting a long, suspicious look in our direction.
When the heavy doors swung shut, Grant turned to me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Out with it, Mom. You tracked me down here. What did you and Mason decide?"
