We’ve reached the end of the hall. Wesley reaches behind him, fumbling for a doorknob without turning. I think he wants to continue monitoring my reaction.
I arch a brow. “The conservatory?”
His expression is sly. “Is it?”
My forehead scrunches, but then the door is open, and the huge bags of soil I’ve seen him drag in here are nowhere to be found. “A bell chimes,” he says lowly, “when we open the door.”
“I didn’t hear a...”
My brain blinks out. I’m stationary as I wait for backup generators to kick on, letting pieces fall together slowly.
The sunroom, which I handed over to Wesley in exchange for the cabin in our negotiations, is not the conservatory he’s been talking about. Thereareplants, big floppy ferns in pots, but my attention flits past them to the red vinyl booth sidled up against the glass wall. The opposite wall is painted pale purple, lower half adorned with aqua tiles that spread over the floor. It smells like plaster and new construction, drilled wood and fresh paint. There are succulents in hanging baskets and a travel poster on the wall that says, in vintage style,welcome to falling stars. Oncloser inspection, it isn’t a poster at all. He’s painted the design directly onto the wall, then hung a frame around it.
“Over here is the display case,” he tells me, motioning at a bank of empty space, “filled with donuts. Up here is the old-fashioned register.” He raps the register-less countertop, which I realize was taken from the bar in the lounge upstairs. A coffeepot that’s probably as old as I am, carafe stained amber, awaits.
Part of me has gone away from Falling Stars, from Top of the World. I’m in Lexington, Kentucky, fourteen years old. In the car with Mom, world black, snow pushing against the windshield. We’re bundled in coats, hats, mittens, still-warm leftover pie from the diner between us in a Styrofoam container. We’re listening to syndicated radio host Delilah on the radio, and while we didn’t scratch millions from the lottery ticket, for the present moment we’re a peaceful family unit. The happy spark of memory infuses me with warmth.
My throat closes up. “It’s perfect.”
The rotary phone is blue rather than beige, nonfunctional, cord cut off. It automatically becomes canon. There’s only one red vinyl booth; the rest of the seating is thrifty substitutes, red-painted card tables with mismatched patio chairs. The bar stools don’t spin, and they’re yellow, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. He’s lit a candle called Blueberry Pie, the scent too weak to overpower the rest of the room. I picture Wesley picking out candles at Casey’s General, hunting for ones that smell like baked goods.
The cloud lights are in here, too—on the floor around us, hanging from the ceiling, reflecting off the glass wall to imitate a café in the night sky. Rain begins to fall outside, pelting the panes.
It’s a miracle I can stand upright when I am, in fact, melting.
“Do you hear the jukebox?” He’s behind me, hands at my waist, lips at my ear. He points at an old red Zenith radio sitting atop a pile of extra tiles.
“It’s playing my favorite song,” I reply, voice quivering in spite of my best efforts. I glance sideways at the glass wall to see his reflection. We stand in a room that is half shadow, half heaven, with softly glowing clouds, their number doubled in the glass wall. He is the most radiant thing in here, smile dazzling.
“You haven’t seen the best part yet.” Wesley moves my hands up from my mouth to my eyes. “Don’t look.”
I shut my eyes tight. “I can’t believe you did this. How long have you been working on it? How did you— I can’t even— You are...” I can’t drum up any coherent speech, babbling. “You are...”
“Yes,” he replies from several feet away, a touch smug. “I am, aren’t I?”
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “You truly are.”
Click.
“What was that?” I ask. “Please let it not be my morning alarm. Am I asleep? I hope this doesn’t all disappear when I open my eyes.”
“Don’t worry, it’s here to stay.” Wesley’s voice is closer than I anticipated. “And...open.”
I do.
Ohhh!
It’s my sign!Maybell’s Coffee Shop.The words are painted on an oval piece of wood. Below them, he’s shaped a donut out of two hot-pink neon wires that plug into the wall, feeding through the back of the wood.
My vision glitters and the image appears in my mind’s eye likea premonition: I see myself adding books to this room, stacking them wherever they’ll fit. Whole rows of romance and science fiction. A cappuccino machine. Menus that double as bookmarks...pairing the perfect book with the pastry of your choice. The thought lands with a fatefulboomthat rattles the floor and ceiling.
“I hope you don’t mind Subway sandwiches for dinner,” he’s saying, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. “I wanted to cook something nice for you, but the clouds took longer than expected and—”
I leap at him, throwing my arms around his neck. I kiss his cheek, his chin, his forehead. “Wesley! How dare you be this amazing! Who gave you the right?” I don’t stop to let him respond. “What about your conservatory? This was supposed to be yours. We made a deal. You can have the cabin, then. It’s yours.” My name is on a sign. My name is on a sign on thewall. With a neon donut. I cannot believe this. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome so much.” Wesley is trying to be modest, but I can tell he’s exceedingly pleased with himself. Good. He should be. “I wanted to bring your happy place to life.”
“And all along, you were justout here.” I am off the rails now. “Being you. And I was overthere, not even knowing.”
