“Of course she would,” Isla answers. “Your grandmother always liked when things were a little unruly. A little joyful.”
“She used to sneak me chocolates from Mrs. Fallon’s counter when I had a bad day,” Winnie adds. “Said it was good for the soul.”
I laugh. “She had the biggest sweet tooth.”
We talk more about Elspeth, about orchards and bees and the next town festival. Goldie grows sleepy against my chest, her breath soft and even. I press my chin into her hat and let the fire’s warmth sink into my bones.
Maybe I’m not so bad with kids, after all. Not when they curl up against you like they’ve known you longer than an afternoon. Not when the pressure of performance is gone.
And it doesn’t feel lonely here—not like I thought it would. With the girls around, it feels shared and steady. I wish I’d come sooner. I wish I hadn’t made my grief harder than it had to be.
When the fire’s down to embers, Isla leans closer. “Thanks for coming. You did well.”
I sigh. “I put it off too long.”
“There’s no right time,” she says gently. “Only the moment you’re ready.”
I nod, throat thick. I know my grandmother isn’t in the ground beneath us. She’s in the blossoms at Mirabelle, the jam jars at Juneberry, all the stubborn corners of the inn. But still—it feels right to say hello. Maybe even to say I’m sorry.
When the others drift back toward the Jeep, I linger a moment longer. I kneel in the frost and lay a few stems of witch hazel at the base of her headstone.
“Hi, Grandma,” I whisper. “I’m trying, I really am. I hope you know that. And I hope—I hope that’s enough for you.”
I press a kiss to my fingers, set them to her name, and let my hand rest there for a moment. There’s no tears or grand collapse, but something does loosen in my chest. An ache set free. And with it comes a sense of peace I haven’t felt in a long time.
25
WELLS
The paththrough town square is scrubbed clean under new snow—hushed and bright, every bare branch powdered to sugar. Flakes are still drifting down, lazy and fat. They soften the edges of our little world.
Elsie walks backward a few paces ahead of me, chewing on a pastry from Juneberry. She’s in no rush to get home today, and I like it. Like that she’s not hurrying to lock herself away, that she’s letting me share the in-between.
She gestures with the roll, cinnamon sugar dusting the air.
“I was thinking,” she says, muffled around the bite. “We should swing by Haven & Hearth before we head back. See if they’ve got any more of those little dishes with the blue sparrows on them. You know, to match the others.”
I grunt. “The house is bursting at the seams, and your grand plan is more dishes?”
She grins around her mouthful, unbothered. “They’d be a set, Wells. You can’t just have two lonely birds. That’s cruel.”
“What’s cruel is letting them fucking multiply like this.”
Her laugh carries through the cold, bright and sharp, and she tosses me the last bite of the roll. I catch it one-handed, shake my head, but eat it anyway.
Truth is, I don’t mind adding to the clutter. I’m just happy she’s walking here beside me, cheeks pink from the cold, curls heavy with snow. I’d pushed her to get out of the inn again this morning.
Yesterday, I told her she needed it, but I didn’t realize she’d be gone all day long. And night. The house felt too quiet without her there.
When the wind rattled the shutters and the rooms settled into silence, I lay awake wondering what she and Isla and Winnie were doing—drinking wine? Laughing? Talking about me? The thought twisted in my gut.
I know Isla and Winnie like me, would talk me up if pressed. But they also remember the way I used to be, the reputation I earned when I first came here. Would Elsie care if they told her? Or worse—would she not even be thinking of me at all?
“Don’t roll your eyes,” she says now.
“Then stop saying things worth rolling them at.”
She sticks her tongue out, which is exactly when her boot skids on a slick patch.
