Page 40 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Fiona looks at me like I asked her to rob a bank. “Come again?”
“Willa mentioned that this particular bird’s habitat was thought to be in Europe and Asia, but it ended up in Oregon and Washington. Long story very short, because of her photos the government got involved, I think she said it was the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services. A loophole was found, and this bird was put on a protection list.”
“Wait a second.” Fiona snaps her eyes in my direction. “Do you think that the land around here could also be protected because of this bird?”
“Unsure.” Slowly, I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “But I’ll do some digging into how the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service can help, see if they have guidelines for this kind of thing. Maybeyou can look into other grassroots conservation organizations that may collaborate with us to protect anything we find?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she says, nodding. “Do you know if there are any current photos of the Blue Rock Thrush?”
“No idea,” I begin as the dinging of my cellphone alerts me to an incoming call. When I glance at the screen and see Murray’s name lighting up, I flash the screen Fiona’s way. “Give me a sec.”
“Hey, Murray,” I answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask,” he says, his voice warm and familiar. “Your mom’s been going on about this hand cream she saw in a boutique on Main Street. The one that smells like lavender and…what was it? Ah, yeah, ‘hope.’”
I laugh, turning my back to Fiona. “Lavender and hope? Sounds like her. Sure, I can grab it. I'm on my way home now. Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it,” he says, but his tone shifts, softer now. “How’s it going with her? You two figuring things out yet?”
I hesitate, glancing down the quiet street. “Sort of, but also not really.”
“How’s that?” he prompts gently.
I sigh, kicking a small pile of bright orange leaves. “You know how she is. The whole town gets this cheerful, can-do, sunshine version of gossipy Mary-Ellen McCluskey, the one who volunteers for everything and bakes pies for fundraisers. But with me, she’s in a whole different mindset.” I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “She’s tougher. Firmer. It’s like she’s got two modes—everyone else’s hero and my personal drill sergeant.”
Murray hums thoughtfully. “Yeah, that sounds like her. But you know why, don’t you?”
I furrow my brow. “Because she’s my mom?”
“Well, yeah, but more than that,” he says, his tone easy yet deliberate. “With the rest of the world, she’s trying to prove shecan hold it all together while doing cartwheels and balancing a tray of champagne flutes on her head. But with you, she doesn’t have to pretend. She trusts you enough to be herself, even if that self isn’t always sugar and sunshine.”
I’m quiet, his words landing with more weight than I expected. That’s like Murray, drop a truth bomb on me to sit with. Thanks.
“She’s proud of you, you know,” he adds after a beat. “Even if she doesn’t say it. She’s proud in that big, messy way of hers that doesn’t always come out right. But it’s there.”
I swallow hard, staring at the cars driving past. “She has a funny way of showing it.”
Murray chuckles softly. “She’s still figuring out how to let you be the incredible woman you are without feeling like she’s losing the little girl who needed her for everything. Give her time. You’ll see.”
My throat tightens, but I manage a small smile. “Thanks, Murray.”
“Anytime, kiddo,” he says, his voice light again. “Don’t forget that lavender and hope, though. Your mom’s been talking about it like it’s liquid gold.”
I laugh softly. “I’ll grab it. See you tonight.”
As the call ends, I stand there for a beat, Murray’s words swirling in my mind. Maybe he’s right. Maybe my mom’s two sides aren’t about shutting me out—but letting me in.
Lavender and hope. I slip my phone into my pocket as I make my way back to Fiona. Maybe I could use a little of both, too.
“All good at home?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Jury’s still out,” I reply, the weight of the conversation with Murray still lingering.
Before she can press further, the door to the bookshop flies open and a frazzled mother barrels out, four screaming children trailing behind her like chaotic little ducklings. She wedges herself right between us without so much as a glance.
My gaze follows the blur of fairy costumes and candy wrappers, and that’s when I spot it—one of Willa’s books clutched tight in the smallest boy’s sticky hands. Despite the noise, despite the interruption, it makes me smile. It’s the proof I think I needed that good things can take root, even in chaos. That the stuff we put out into the world might actually matter.
I glance up at the window display again, at Willa’s name on the cover, and for a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to put my own name on something that sticks. Something real.
