“Pro–natural habitats,” he replies with emphasis. “Everyone with a yard should designate a natural growth area, to be honest. Put up a small fence around it and just let—”
“Yep, sure,” I interrupt. “Look at those X’s! It’s like a traditional pirate treasure map.” There are five of them, scattered wildly all over the property. It would be an exhaustive trek to get to all of them, any potential treasure buried under the X’s hidden by more than shallow mounds of dirt by now. This map is at least two decades old. There could be whole adult trees growing over the tops of those X’s.
“Violet’s second wish,” we say at the same time, meeting each other’s gaze. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—so is Wesley, and we spring apart.
“Violet said Victor thought there was buried treasure,” I explain unnecessarily. “Maybe these are a few of the spots where they thought treasure might be located. Being older, and Victor’s health being the way it was, I guess they’d gotten to the point in their treasure hunt where they were theorizing instead of doing any physical digging.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” he replies quickly. “Makes sense. I’ll just pocket this map, then...” He starts to slide it into his pocket, but I snatch it up.
“Not so fast.”
“Finders Keepers rules apply,” he says with a teasing half grin. “That’s part of Violet’s dying wish. I don’t know about you, but I’m morally obligated to honor her terms.”
“I’m the one who found the map.”
“And tomorrow, you’ll find that all the shovels have been hidden. Somewhere you’ll never be able to reach, like the top of the fridge. What are you going to use to dig up treasure, a spoon?”
“Maybe. I’m a Maybell Parrish. It’s tradition to do everything the hard way.”
His eyes flicker with amusement in the shadowy corridor. “Are there a lot of Maybell Parrishes running around out there?”
“Maybe.” I bite my lip, trying not to dwell on that tonal shift in him, where it feels like he isn’t merely tolerating me anymore. This is... friendly. It’s nice. I’m dreading him taking this budding niceness away, puttingthatout of reach. “Here, I’ll make a deal with you. If you do all the digging, I’ll bring you along and we’ll split the treasure fifty-fifty.”
“This mythical treasure,” he adds, in a way that tries to be skeptical but wants to believe.
“This treasure that could be real. There’s no reason to think it shouldn’t be.”
He frowns, thinking. “Okay. But not for another week, all right? Are you willing to wait until Saturday? I’ve got a landscaping job in Gatlinburg that’ll take up most of my time from the third through the seventh.”
I stick out my hand for him to shake. “Deal.”
“And now.” He keeps my hand encased in his for a few seconds longer than necessary, then squeezes lightly before letting go. “Come on.” He jerks his head, already walking off without me.
“Ah, yes. The monumentally important discovery of yours, which you incorrectly believe is more impressive than a Christmas tree.”
“A Christmas tree inMay.”
“You seem to be stuck on that.”
But then I shut up, because he leads me toward an open door that is essentially a portal to the past. A ruffled white and pink blanket on a canopy bed, pillows smaller than I remember. Everything smaller than I remember, in fact. A white dresser. A pink vanity table. A shelf of my old favorites: TheAmerican Girlseries, with Molly’s books taking the special number one spot.Dear Americabooks.The Princess Diaries. A Series of Unfortunate Events.And hanging on the wall across the room from my bed, a very old postcard in a wooden frame with no glass.
Season’s Greetings from the Top of the World!
Two red-cheeked, bundled-up kids play on an old-fashioned sled in front of Falling Stars Hotel, snow covering the ground, roof, and distant timberline. The hand-painted postcard is bordered with holly. Victorian lamps flank a wrought-iron archway dressed in red and green garland, cardinals perched atop.
The house is pink.
Not because it truly was, but because the artist painted Falling Stars at sunset, taking creative liberties with pigments. In 1934, somebody made Falling Stars look just as magical on the outside as it felt to me on the inside, embedding that magic in my brain, literally shining a rose-colored light on all my recollections of thisplace. I can see now, from an aged and experienced perspective, that gray stonework lies beneath the wash of sunrise.
“Oh,” I say softly.
“I know. Memory is a strange thing.” He steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets. “This used to be your room, I take it?”
“Yeah.” I barely hear myself, taking the picture down off the wall. It leaves behind a small imprint untouched by dust. “I can’t believe none of this has changed.”
We lock eyes and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Violet kept my room this way in case I ever needed it again.
“There were a couple others that I think used to hang up, too, but fell off the wall.” He takes two more postcards from the dresser, handing them to me. Their condition isn’t as good—one’s half missing, advertising thebiggest victory garden in the state of Tennessee!The other’s severely water-damaged:buy war bonds.
