Page 115 of Book and Ladder
Winona’s the first to speak. “Of all the things …”
I manage a small nod, still absorbing the echo of Gran’s words.
Cass says, “Daisy, this property has meant so much to all of us—to you most of all. But the heart of Moss and Maple isn’t here in this building. Your gran was the heart—and you’ve been the heart. And you’ll take that wherever you go. It won’t be the same, but it will be a new kind of sweetness.”
A small, shaky smile works its way up before I can stop it.My throat tightens again—but this time it isn’t from crying. It’s from letting myself hope for a moment that Cass might be right.
“It’s going to take me a minute to believe that,” I admit.
“Of course it will,” Emberleigh says. “And there’s no rush.”
Eventually, as much as we don’t want to, we stand and clean up our dessert plates. We exchange the kind of hugs reserved for funerals and farewells.
Everyone leaves except Winona, who insists on lagging behind with me.
“I’m going to miss this place,” she says, looking around.
My gaze follows hers and I sigh. “Thank you for everything.”
“It’s been my pleasure. And I’m with Cass. The heart of Moss and Maple will live on.”
I take down the event flyer announcing our last author book signing. Then I grab the list I made of gift card credits I’ll honor.
Winona and I walk to the door together.
“Thanks for staying on the Titanic until the violin played,” I say.
“I’d save a spot on my driftwood for you,” she says with a tender smile. “I won’t watch you drown.”
The door snicks shut behind her, and I stand in the entry taking one last look around, listening to the stillness. Endings rarely come the way we expect them to. I keep waiting for a sign, for closure—something monumental and significant. Instead, walking out feels the same as every other night. The same, but totally different.
Maybe this is what letting go sounds like—hollow, but not empty.
I drive home with the basket of notes on the passenger seat and Gran’s letter tucked safely in my purse. I call Momand Dad and tell them about it, promising them I’ll make a copy for them to keep.
When I step onto my porch, there’s a card sticking out from the screen door. I tug it out.
The front of the envelope simply says, “Daisy.”
I step inside my home and tear it open.
The card, with a design of simple geometric shapes on the front, trembles in my hands, whether from exhaustion or something I don’t want to name.
The inside has no inscription, only handwriting:
Thank you for the biography. I still think a gift like this means you like me.
- Patrick.
I chuckle softly, even though he’s still Patrick and I definitely don’t like him—well, not much. I’ve given his confession a lot of thought and I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit to softening a little toward him after he explained what happened that day so many years ago.
I’d fully forgive him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still his dad’s right hand man, sitting next to him, nodding his head along with every decision. I think real apologies show up in what we do next, not what we say. If Patrick were really sorry, and he didn’t want to see Moss and Maple close, he would have spoken up. Instead, he walked around like a shadow of Conrad O’Connell, doing as he was told and reciting the party line.
I’m so tired after all the emotions of the day, I think I could sleep for a week straight. I get ready for bed, and am about to turn off the light when an urge overtakes me to check my email. I haven’t heard from BTTP since the goodbye email I sent him. If he hadn’t stood me up, I’d betelling him all about today—how it felt to close the shop that meant everything to me, the time I spent with my friends giving a sweet homage to Moss and Maple.
I pad downstairs and grab my laptop, carrying it up to my bed. When I’m tucked back under the covers with my back to the headboard, I open my email.
Scanning my inbox, I see it. A response from the host ofBurning Through the Pages. I should be mad at him. And I am. But I also miss him. And tonight, I want to hear his words, even if I’ll never meet him in real life.
