Page 11 of Hard to Love
But it wasn’t like she’d expected. Rather than providing her with answers, the boots she now wore on her feet seemed to fill her with questions.
After dessert—a celebratory peach cobbler Greer barely touched—was served and cleared, Delaney came around the table and squatted down next to her. She said quietly, “I know this is hard for you.”
“Delaney, you’re a damn good bootmaker.” It was true. She’d caught onto the mechanics faster than anyone could’ve imagined. But change, even good change, sometimes still hurts the heart.
“You know your dad wanted to make your boots. If I had to guess, I’d even say he seriously considered doing just that when he knew his hands were failing him.”
“We both know they can only be made at the right time.”
“And that’s the only reason he didn’t.”
Delaney’s words didn’t keep Greer’s chest from achingat the loss, but they were a reminder that mysterious forces were at work here, and even the great Whit Maddox hadn’t been able to dictate the power of prophecy boots.
That truth settling inside her, Greer gave Delaney a hug she hoped said all the things she felt. Her reverence for the gift she’d once wanted for herself, her appreciation for Delaney’s magic touch as the prophecy bootmaker, and her happiness that Delaney and her brother had found their way back to each other.
Lively chatter and the squeak of chairs being pushed back tugged Greer’s attention back to the table. Ty and Sawyer congratulated her again before leaving.
“I’ll see you at home later.” Cal leaned in to give Delaney a kiss then released her to wrap Greer in a hug. “Congratulations, little sister.”
She hugged him back, held on for a few extra seconds.
After Cal left, Greer said to Delaney, “I need to walk a bit. Do you have to get back to the shop right away?”
“I’ve always got time for you.” They strolled out into the sunshine, and Delaney looked down at Greer’s feet with a frown. “You’re going to tell me you don’t like them. Maybe I should’ve done overlay, but from the sketch, I thought your dad wanted—”
Greer looped her arm through Delaney’s and turned in the direction of the Honeywell Park. “Stop. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Then why do you seem sad?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Spill it.”
“I guess when I put on the boots I just expected the sky to open up, give me some kind of sign.”
“They’re a prophecy, not Santa Claus.” Delaney gave Greer a hip bump. “You can’t expect your destiny to justappear like a present under the tree.”
“Isn’t that what happened for you?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Delaney’s laugh was full of disbelief. “I fought destiny, so no, I wouldn’t say it dropped down my chimney and into my stocking.”
“If I’m being honest, I’ve been restless. Looking for something and I’m not even sure what that something is.”
“It’s gotten worse since your dad died, hasn’t it?”
“You’ve noticed?”
“Just that you seem less settled than normal. A little less Greer-like and more at loose ends.”
“I’m restless, bored.” Her laugh was hollow. “God, I sound like a kid. Whiny. Forget I said anything.”
“No, I want you to talk about it. Because whatever this is you’re feeling, it’s real. Which means you need to work it out. What are you bored with?”
“My glassblowing.” But even that wasn’t the complete truth. “I’m tired of picking up something new, getting pretty good at it, and then abandoning it for something more interesting. Nothing—from photography to blacksmithing—lasts for more than a couple of years.”
“Maybe you weren’t meant to pick one art form and perfect it.”
“But art doesn’t work that way.” A un-sighed breath sat heavy in Greer’s chest, but as they approached the park, the sight of Honeywell Creek soothed her a little. How many times had she jumped into that flowing water and let it wash away whatever was bothering her? She longed for a problem a rope swing and a good splash could cure. “Art is all about becoming a master.”
