I recall the moments early on when she’d blurted what sounded like nonsensical words—car insurance, chicken sandwich—but see now that we’ve both been nervous. This tells me we’re not that different after all.
But how do I show her these similarities and how they can help us get past any doubts she has before it’s too late?
CHAPTER 20
BREE
I stareat the manuscript on my laptop screen, marveling at how much progress I’ve made in the last few days. Six thousand words yesterday alone. That’s a personal record. My fingers have ink stains—a quirk from my habit of jotting notes by hand before transferring them to the computer—but my heart feels lighter than it has in years.
My phone rings, displaying my editor’s name. I brace myself, expecting the usual nudge about deadlines, though I’m afraid this time it might come in the form of a shove.
“Bree! These chapters are magnificent!” Meredith’s voice bursts through the speaker without a preamble. She always gets right to the point, whether it’s about revisions, due dates, or progress. Her red pen is legendary. Thankfully, I’m on the right side of it for once. At least, I hope so. This conversation could go in any number of directions.
“The chemistry between Lorna and Drake crackles like lightning on the open prairie. I’ve never seen you write romantic tension this electric before.”
My shoulders drop with relief. “Really? You think it works?”
“Works? It sizzles! Keep going. Don’t stop. This is your best writing yet.”
After we hang up, I sit back and close my eyes, processing her words. What I’m doing differently is simple yet practically inconceivable—at least since I originally created the document that holds my nearly complete manuscript. The same one that remained blank for an embarrassingly long time.
I’m finally writing from experience instead of observation or imagination—nothing wrong with that, but it’s like I required something more to tell this story.
The way Drake gazes at Lorna with that mixture of desire and tenderness? That’s how Fletch looked at me on the pond. The flutter in Lorna’s stomach when their hands brush? That’s what happens to me every time Fletch and I touch.
When he was talking about hockey to the kids with so much patience and passion? My heart has been skating toward him with no way to stop. When did his smile become the first thing I look for when I wake up? Seeing him help with the pageant and caring about our community gives me the feels. He’s the book boyfriend of my dreams. When did this happen?
I’m falling for Fletch. The worst part is that this realization doesn’t terrify me as much as it should.
I close my laptop and grab my coat. I need to give my eyes a rest and clear my head.
Mom texted earlier, asking me to stop by. When I arrive at Golden Years Village, the scent of slightly burned sugar meets my nose and I instantly worry. Something must be terribly wrong.
“Mom? Are you okay? What are you doing?”
She appears in the doorway wearing an apron—something I’ve never seen before in my life. “Baking.”
I blink a few times because the words do not compute.
“I’m making cookies. They’re a bit overdone but edible, I think.”
I follow her to the kitchenette, where a plate of slightly lumpy and charred chocolate chip cookies sits cooling on the counter.
“What’s the occasion?” I say, when I really want to ask,Should I be concerned for your health and well-being?But hold back. Not because she needs to watch her waistline. No, she’s always been slender and isn’t at risk for any diet-related ailments. It’s because my mother doesn’t do things like bake.
“Try one?” It sounds more like a peace offering than an act of hospitality.
Strange.
I pick up the one that looks the most like a regular chocolate chip cookie. It’s extra crispy around the edges, but the center isn’t burned.
Mom pours me a cup of milk and lets out a sigh so deep and so long it’s as if she’s been holding it in for days, if not years. “It occurred to me that things are changing. You’re all grown up. Married now. I thought I should practice baking if there’s a chance I’m going to be a grandmother someday. I should know how to bake cookies, shouldn’t I?”
I nearly choke. “You want to be a grandmother?”
She turns to me, her expression softening. “I wasn’t always the mother you deserved, Bree. I was too caught up in my life, too concerned with appearances, and with what others thought. I missed so much.” She hesitates.
My eyes prickle. I’ve recovered from nearly inhaling the cookie, but I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.
