Page 71 of Sunshine
“It’s okay,” she says, but something in her voice tells me it isn’t. “I don’t blame Mona for missing the signs. She did the best she could, worked hard to put a roof over our heads and food on the table, and she was a high-school dropout herself. A person doesn’t need a higher education to succeed in life, and I think she assumed I wasn’t too clever and didn’t need the pressure of a parent who measured achievements by grades. I wasn’t destined for college so what was the point in making me feel bad about it?”
“I agree with the part about not needing to go to college,” I say. “And I think my mom and dad were a lot like Mona in that respect. Charlie is the only Davenport to get a degree. But it’s not always about needing an education. Sometimes, it’s about wanting one—or wanting the kind of job that requires it.”
Poppy shakes her head with a deprecating chortle that sounds forced. “Maybe things would be different if Mona noticed the signs when I was young, or if my dad had taken even a shred of interest in me, or if there was a single teacher who didn’t immediately write me off as a troublemaking simpleton, but theydidn’t, and they’re not. I am who I am, and it’s too late to start again.”
“But if you could go back and change things,” I press. “If you could advocate for Little Poppy the way you take care of kids as a nanny, what would you want for yourself? What kind of future did you picture when you were young enough to still believe anything was possible?”
“What is this?” she asks with a more genuine laugh even as she dashes at the tears that spill down her cheeks. “A therapy session?”
“No.” I slide my hand over her thigh and squeeze it comfortingly. “It’s one friend talking to another, so she might feel better about something that’s bothering her.”
Poppy shakes her head with an amused huff. “You’re smooth, Davenport.”
I hit her with my best smolder. “Like honey.”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh, and the warmth in her expression when she glances my way bounces around the entire car. “I take it back. You’re not smooth. You’re a dork.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
She lifts her shoulders and drops them with a sigh. “Fine. Yes, if things were different, I’d want to run my own business. No. More than that. Build a whole brand. Create a salon where people feel comfortable in their own skin and where everyone walks out my doors with more self-love than they had when they arrived. And I know I don’t need a diploma to do that, but I like the idea of having one. It might make me less wistful about the opportunities I missed as a kid. I wouldn’t mind proving to myself that I can do it.”
The lift in her voice is proof of how important this is to her. It’s a good idea, and she can do it. I know she can. I can help her. Hell, Charlie can help her. She’s been on all of us about expanding Silver Leaf, and there was some talk a while backabout opening our own spa to increase our appeal to the bridal market.
As soon as I think of it, my blood starts to buzz with ideas. Like I’ve figured it all out. For both of us. I’m about to tell Poppy that everything she wants is in the realm of possibility, but she goes on before I can say anything.
“But Dylan—I couldn’t do what you do. With all those reports and accounting and managing people and business planning? I’d sink fast, and I know it.”
“It’s hard,” I admit. “But—”
“And if it’s hard for you, imagine how impossible it would be for me. You have the support of your family, and you qualified as a chef before you had to run the restaurant yourself. I’d need to train in cosmetologyandbusiness management, and I just don’t know if I can do it.”
She trails off, blinking at the road ahead, and I reach for her knee again. “Poppy—”
“And I don’t want to be like my mom.” Her voice is firmer now. Like this is the real non-negotiable. “I don’t want to be so consumed by a business that I forget there are other things that matter in life. I never want to be so…so…self-involved.”
“You could never,” I reassure her.
“Plus, I’m happy as a nanny,” she says as a reflective smile steals across her mouth. “It’s rewarding and colorful and fun. Working with children has so much value. I’m making a difference, Dylan, and I don’t regret the path that brought me here. I’ve traveled the world, met beautiful people, made wonderful memories. Being a nanny gives me purpose. Not everyone has that.”
This conversation isn’t over—I’ve got too many solutions to her problems to let this go so easily—but I’m so taken by her in this moment that I let myself be diverted. She’s radiant.Hope and optimism glow beneath her skin. Always there. Always lighting her up.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“How do you take something painful and shape it into something positive? How do you dress up a heartache to make it look like one of your happily ever afters?”
Izzy’s school appears up ahead, and Poppy casts me a sidelong look before pulling into the driveway. “How do you turn a bag of flour and a cup of water into pasta that makes your mouth water?”
“I add eggs,” I reply, like the recipe should be obvious. “Salt. Olive oil. I handle the dough just right. It’s never just flour and water.”
“There’s your answer.” Poppy pulls into a parking space, turns off the engine, and gives me a pretty smile. “Lifeis never just flour and water. It’s so much more. The ingredients may be simple. On their own, they might not even taste any good. But with the right perspective and a little extra effort, there’s always the potential to create something from next to nothing.”
She reaches over and sifts her fingers through the strands of hair falling loose across my forehead, her expression contemplative as she traces the details of my face, and I watch the words spill from her perfect cherry lips, completely under her spell.
“Everyone has the power to be happy.”
twenty
