Page 119 of Every Good Thing
I can’t help but look in Ben’s direction—his arms are folded, but his brow perks up.
“There’s not a huge profit in it,” I continue. “But it builds our customer base. It’s little work for us, and nice for them to have a comfortable, safe space. Thanks to the studio, we have a new meeting space. Dot and I are planning another structure and an expanded playground where the garden is now. So, with two new spaces, we can accommodate more groups.”
“What about scheduling?” Trisha asks.
“With the new software, they book themselves. Trisha and I will approve any new groups that want to use the facility. Once approved, they’re given an access code for scheduling, select refreshment packages, and pay online. Our app will let us know what’s on that day’s schedule. It’s hands-off for me, which means less chance of mistakes. I’ve contacted more support groups. Soon, we’ll have two UNCW dog training classes here, Pets for Vets, and WPD’s mounted police division doing their annual safety training at Saddletree. We always envisioned Saddletree as a retreat and place of connection for groups that need it. This move will prioritize them and get us back to our roots.”
Applause breaks out, filling me with relief and pride. Saddletree’s future feels hopeful, even if other parts of my life don’t. Still, I glance at Ben, standing opposite me by the house, and I nearly fall out.
A warm smile stretches over his lips, and he drops his folded arms to sign, “I’ve never been more excited for Saddletree. Excellent work. I’m proud of you.”
With the group distracted by chatter and unable to understand us anyway, I sign back, “Thanks for helping me. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
Warming admiration flashes over his face like my words have stirred forgotten feelings. He signs, “It’s no trouble.”
A brief chuckle escapes, and my fingers work furiously to ask, “Ready to come home yet?”
His brow pinches with surprise, even though I ask it whenever we’re together, in case he wants to but can’t say it. His face quickly morphs with pity—a look I hate from anyone, most of all him—and my sadness compounds like blood thickening around my heart.
Still, I wait him out, staring until he answers the question, however much it hurts. I think of Dr. Reese’s advice at our last session that I shouldn’t hold back, that Ben needs my openness. I sign exactly what I’m thinking. “Please, Ben. You are killing me. I love you, and you’re killing me.”
He breaks eye contact to stare at his boots—that’s my answer. But then, as hope oozes from my pores with my anxiety sweat, his hands move again. “Let’s talk after.”
“All of this is well and good, Lena,” Alice says, breaking my trance, “but will you still host Jack’s poker nights? If he’s not helping you with spring planting—”
“Don’t worry,” I say, perking up. “I’ve already scheduled some groups as recurring bookings, including poker night.”
She sighs. “Good. Those idiots get even dumber on poker night.”
Now wanting to end this meeting as soon as possible, I continue, “The app is ready for scheduling starting in December, so until then, we’ll continue training, fine-tuning the menu and staff, and advertising our grand reopening. I want to do a huge social media kick in November to excite people. I’ll also be looking for ideas on how to make Christmas at Saddletree very special this year… so think about it.”
Murmuring starts between the tables.
“What about the new logo?” Trisha asks between conversations. “We’ll need that for social media.”
“Cherry has her portfolio with her.” I motion to the large leather binder propped against the railing. “Let’s see it.”
Her eyes cut to Ben, but she squares her jaw, slaps the leather binder on the table, and unzips it. She extracts the large, penciled sketch, holding it up for everyone to see.
My breath catches, and my heart quickens.
It’s the perfect logo for Saddletree.
Almost. As beautiful as it is, what’s missing is obvious.
Mom’s tree, outlined in apple green, stands out against a gold half-moon. The artful lines of the detailed leaves and Spanish moss give the impression of movement—it looks like it’s swaying in the breeze. A pink swing hangs from its thickest branch, holding a little girl wearing distinctive rubber boots. Leaning against the tree trunk is a stenciled version of me, one knee up, hair waving. It’s Ruthie and me sharing a tree moment, as we’ve done hundreds of times.
Trisha gasps. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s Saddletree,” Mr. Wickers agrees.
“Gorgeous, really. It makes me so happy, I could cry,” Marnie gushes.
“I love it,” Alice says. “Such happy colors.”
“Pink, green, and gold. It’ll never get old,” Shakespeare says.
“The colors are nice, but it’s, um…” I suddenly feel hot, like it’s high summer, and I’m mid-marathon. “Um…”
