“No, no, you should have,” Winnie insists. “We’re exactly the kind of people you should tell. Consider us your panel of experts.”
“Hardly,” Isla mutters. “We’re both very unlucky in love.”
Winnie waves her off. “Shush. I may have only slept with one man—” She glances at Goldie and gently covers her ears. “—who got me pregnant in the back of a Subaru and then left town to become a DJ in Phoenix, but I’ve still got wisdom.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “He gave me Marigold, so I can’t really complain.” She shoots Isla a sly look. “Isla, on the other hand, has chosen to be emotionally constipated.”
Isla rolls her eyes. “The men in Blue Willow don’t interest me.”
Winnie coughs pointedly. “Liar.”
Their banter is ridiculous and affectionate, so easy it makes something in me twinge. Not in a bad way—it’s a quiet longing, a recognition of how good it feels to be known like this. To be let in.
“I’ve never really had this before,” I admit. “The . . . telling. The laughing with friends about it. It’s nice. Weird, but nice.”
“Good,” Isla says softly. “Because we’re not letting you crawl back into that inn and bottle it all up anymore. You’ve got us now.”
Winnie raises her mug in a toast. “To girlfriends. And to Elsie finally confiding in us.”
I clink my cup against theirs. A small laugh breaks free. For once, it doesn’t feel so heavy to say the messy things out loud. It feels like unburdening, like admitting you’re not alone. And the sound of their laughter, well, that turns the cold down another few degrees, too.
27
ELSIE
A neat stackof documents stares back at me from the top of my dresser. I printed everything Beau sent my way by email. Legal terms. Contingencies. Numbers lined up with unnerving precision.
Quite a bit of clarity, but very little comfort.
I pour another inch of plum wine, though I already know it won’t help much. It’s been a week since I saw him outside Juneberry. A week since Wells and I agreed to wait—on what, exactly, I’m not even sure anymore.
Starting a real relationship? Talking about the future? Making plans that involve him and me and the kind of life I used to think wasn’t mine to want.
Either way, not telling that steadfast, patient man about all this sits heavily in my chest. He’s been nothing but honest with me, and I keep finding new ways to hold things back. Terrified of how he might react. Moreover, worried he might change his mind once he sees how uncertain I still am.
This is the kind of thing that could be misread, but I remind myself I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m allowed to understand my choices. All of them.
Beau’s offer is tidy and sensible on paper. It looks like the kind of solution a responsible person would pick. A clean way to close the door. The kind I used to think I wanted.
But the pages feel cold, stripped of anything human. They’re waiting for a signature, for something final, and I’m not ready to give that yet. I set them aside before I can talk myself into believing I am.
My hand drifts instead to the bundle of Elspeth’s letters, bound in twine, wax seal still unbroken.
The sight of them makes my throat tighten. These aren’t tidy. They won’t offer escape or clean decisions. They’ll only ask for feeling, and I’ve avoided enough of that to know exactly how dangerous it is.
If I’m going to move through this, really move through it, I have to start here. I have to let her speak.
The only way out is through.
I take a long swallow of wine, wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and finally, finally open another letter.
Letter One
My dearest girl,
I saw a sparrow steal your toast crumbs from the porch this morning. Bold little thing, and I swear she winked at me before flying off. You would’ve laughed, I think. You always understood creatures better than most people.
