“I’ll walk you in,” I say before I can stop myself. “Path’s slick.”
“Good thinking,” she murmurs. “We both know how clumsy I can be.”
We take the lane single file until it widens, then side by side. The crowd presses close again. Someone claps my shoulder. Someone else tells Elsie she read like a bell. She says thank you and keeps her eyes forward.
At the table, Isla takes the matches. “Took you long enough,” she says. “Cider donut?”
“I’ll pass.”
“I’m—” Elsie starts, then hesitates. “Maybe later.”
Jack lifts a lantern and grins like a man who’s not in trouble. “Good line on those stakes.”
“Thanks for not kicking them over,” I tell him.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying,” Isla mutters.
He winks. “She threatened me with the tongs.”
Their bickering rolls on, easy and familiar. It’s at least one thing I can count on. Something grounded, unshakable, like the snow underfoot or the warmth of the braziers.
Elsie and I drift apart then, not by choice. People fold around us, and the task of the night reasserts itself. I find myself back at the far end, checking the last two candles, righting a tilting jar.
I relight one wick, watch the flame catch slowly. Then I stand there too long, hands in my pockets, replaying the almost in my head. It echoes like a struck bell. It’s sharp at first, then softer, then gone.
When I spot Elsie again, she’s by the bowl with Isla, her head bent. She looks up as if she already knew I was watching. Our eyes catch, and the space between us fills withwantagain.
It’s foolish, and it’s tender. It’s trouble waiting to be invited in.
19
ELSIE
It’s beena week since I found my grandmother’s letters, and I’ve still only managed to read two of them. The rest sit in a biscuit tin on the dresser, stacked like a dare. I haven’t touched them in four days. Haven’t even looked at them.
I’m not brave enough—or patient enough—to sit with my grandmother’s without wanting to tear through every line in a single breath.
I keep wondering what waits for me inside. What if she wrote something cruel, something that would split the memory of her I’ve been protecting? Or worse, what if they’re all so gentle, so full of love, that I’ll have nowhere to put the ache of it?
I don’t want to read about how she adored me. I want a time machine.
Three nights ago, I wanted something else entirely.
I almost let myself kiss Wells. I almost closed that impossible inch between us on the orchard bench, ready to let the dark or the grief or the plum trees themselves decide for me. But if I had, I’d have to admit that leaving this place won’t be as clean as I keep pretending it will be.
And I still haven’t given him his damned letter.
I don’t know what’s in it, but I know it wasn’t meant for me. And if I keep hiding it—or worse, if I read it—I become the villain again. That’s not a part I want to play, though it seems to come naturally these days.
At least it’s been easy enough to avoid Wells since the orchard. We skipped Friday’s committee meeting after Bobby decided to push it; no new business, bad forecast. A low-pressure system’s moving in from the coast—winds high enough to rattle siding, sleet and frozen rain.
Wells has been busy tightening shutters and checking the generator. I’ve been busy pretending to make progress, calling the lawyer, telling myself I’m closer to done here than I really am.
Still, if we have any hope of getting through this storm without the silence turning corrosive, it’s time I give him the letter.
It’s past five on Sunday evening when I find him in the front parlor, setting lanterns on the side tables in case the power goes out. He’s kneeling by the fireplace, testing the draft with his hand.
“I have something that belongs to you,” I say, which startles him enough that he smacks his fist on the flue lever.
