Page 15 of Courage, Dear Heart

“Who?” He seems different today, more...I don’t know, real, I guess.

“My sister. The cupcakes I sent you are from her bakery.” He tugs at his tie, loosening it a bit. Why is that so sexy?

“Witchery Bakery? I get Jamie’s birthday cake from there every year. I love that place. Your sister works there?”

“She owns it. And I can arrange for some private baking lessons.”

Wow. Excitement bubbles inside me. That would be so cool. But it quickly fizzles out. He doesn’t mean it. No way he can be serious about it.

The bell above the door chimes and Angela is back. I check the time on my phone. Ten after five. “Thank you, Angela.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get going. See you tomorrow.” She answers me, but she’s watching Elliott.

Jamie comes from the back room where he was watching TV, his small hands tucked into his shorts’ pockets. I bend to pick him up. Give him a kiss. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack?” His arms tighten around my neck, but his gaze narrows at Elliott—my overprotective son.

“This is Elliott. He’s the one who sent us the cupcakes.”

Jamie’s eyes widen and then narrow again.

“Hi, Jamie. Good to see you again. I was just telling your mom that my sister made those cupcakes, and she can teach you and your mom how to bake them, too. Would you like that?”

Jamie’s little shoulders move up and down, but I can tell Elliott has gotten his attention. I set him down. “Go upstairs and wash your hands. Get a snack for yourself and give Daisy one of her biscuits, too. But only one, okay?”

Jamie nods and walks to the back and through the door that leads up the stairs to our apartment above the store.

Elliott’s gaze follows him. “He’s a quiet boy.”

I wring my hands and swallow the rapidly forming knot in my throat. “He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t said a word since the accident that killed my husband.”

Elliott’s mouth drops, and he glances at the empty corridor and back at me. “I’m so sorry. I keep saying the wrong things.”

I shrug. “You had no way of knowing. Jamie was a little motor mouth before the accident. But not one word since.”

“What happened?” His voice is soft, kind.

“Car accident. Jamie was in the car with my husband, CJ. I was here, but I was FaceTiming with Jamie, and he was showing me where they were. The camera was pointed at CJ and the window. Another car ran a red light and hit them. CJ died on impact. Jamie watched his father die. We both did.” The words come out fast, in a single breath. I haven’t said this to anyone since the accident. Since the phone calls to Sheila, my family and CJ’s. After that, it was always someone else talking about it on my behalf. Always in hushed tones as if it somehow made it better. Easier. It didn’t. But speaking the words out loud again feels like a release somehow. Like I can finally accept it.

EIGHT

Elliott

“Jesus.”Her revelation hits me like a sucker punch. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine . . .” I let the words trail off because what do you say to something like that? Words seem so small, so inadequate for the weight she’s carrying. I look at her, really look at her, and suddenly so much clicks into place. The sadness in those beautiful, wide eyes. The way she holds herself like she’s pieced together by will alone as if one wrong move might make her unravel. It’s heartbreaking—and yet, there’s strength there too, a quiet resilience that leaves me almost in awe. Most people would crumble, but she’s here, standing in front of me, carrying it all with a grace that seems impossible.

I feel this ache in my chest, not only for what she’s been through but for all the strength it takes to keep moving, day after day, with that kind of loss. For a moment, I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like for her those first few days, weeks, months after losing him—trying to be strong for her son, holding herself together when herworld had split apart. And her son, Jamie . . . I can’t even begin to imagine the pain he must carry, the silence he’s retreated into.

But here’s the strange thing: none of this scares me. If anything, I feel pulled toward her like there’s something about her sorrow that calls to me, that vulnerability wrapped in strength. It makes me want to stick around, maybe lighten her load, even if only for a moment. I find myself wanting to see her smile, to be the one who can coax it out of her, no matter how faint.

And yeah, maybe I should feel like this is too much, that her grief should send me running the other way. But all I feel is this overwhelming urge to make things a little easier for her. To be something solid she can lean on, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Because if anyone deserves to feel some relief, to feel the weight lessen even a little, it’s her.

She runs both hands up and down her arms as if to ward off a chill and looks away. She blinks in rapid succession and her lashes go dark with tears.

Jillian wipes at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not that big of a mess, but the anniversary of his death was . . . the day you came in and it always hits me hard.”

I’m at a loss for what to do. If one of my sisters were crying, I’d hug them and tell a joke. But I don’t think Jillian would welcome either. “Don’t apologize.”

She sniffles, finds a tissue, and blots her face. Blinks, regains her composure, and faces me again, arms wrapped around herself.

“So what can I do for you today? Flowers again?”

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