Alice’s snow-white hair was neatly pinned back, and she wore one of her signature cardigans. Today’s was pale pink and dotted with embroidered daisies. Her expression had a kind of faraway look that Zoe had learned meant she was trying to catch hold of a memory that kept slipping just out of reach.
Beside her sat Mrs. C., ledger open, pencil in hand, still taking bets on who might win Couple of the Year. Across from them was Mrs. Bishop, animatedly recounting something with wild hand gestures, a half-eaten blueberry scone on her plate. The trio were in full debate, their voices rising easily above the clatter of cups and hum of chatter around the bakery.
Krista caught Zoe’s eye and waved her over, mouthing, “Help me.”
When Emily set Zoe’s lavender latte on the counter—its steam curling in soft swirls—Mrs. Bishop called across the roombefore Zoe could even take a sip. “Zoe, dear! Just the person we wanted. Come here, quickly! Alice’s got something for you.”
That got Zoe moving. She crossed the bakery, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
Alice looked up, eyes bright. “I remembered what we talked about at the Spring Market,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “That special flower you asked me about? The one Edith said she hadn’t seen in years.”
Zoe’s pulse skipped. “You did?”
“I remember the name. Moonlight Kiss. And I know where I saw it.” Alice nodded, the faintest smile playing on her lips. “It was years ago—must’ve been early spring. I was out walking with my husband, up along one of the ridges. There was steam rising from the ground, even though the air was cold. And just beyond it…” Her brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. “A patch of green so bright it looked wrong for the season. And trees—cherry, I think—were already starting to bloom.”
Zoe’s heart kicked. “Steam…and early cherry blossoms.”
“It must’ve been a meadow. Hidden, I’m sure, or maybe sheltered somehow.” Alice scrunched her brow, trying to remember.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. C. scoffed, waving her pencil dismissively. “I’m telling you, those Moonlight Kisses are off the old Cherry Blossom Trail.”
“Maybe you’re talking about the same place,” Mrs. Bishop suggested diplomatically.
Zoe dug a small notebook from her bag, setting her latte aside as she jotted the details down:Steam. Early cherry blossoms. A hidden meadow high along a ridge.Could this be the very spot she and Jackson had seen on their hike?
The ladies bickered on, Mrs. C. insisting she’d picnicked “near that very ridge” in ’72 and there were no flowers then, Mrs. Bishop claiming only someone truly in love could find them,and Alice defending her story with surprising fire. Zoe promised herself she’d return to the area soon, she and Jackson both.
And this time, they wouldn’t turn back before finding what lay beyond the river.
TWENTY-FOUR
JACKSON
Sunday, March 16th
Jackson felt like hell the next morning, which shouldn’t have surprised him after how the night ended. Dancing in the park with Zoe, walking her to her door, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek while Mrs. C. pretended not to watch from her porch. He’d ridden his motorcycle home with the cool spring air snapping at his jacket, half-convinced that maybe, just maybe, he could keep playing the part without breaking.
For a few hours, he’d let himself believe it too.
As he crawled into bed, he found himself thinking that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he was ready for a future with Zoe. Maybe he could stop fighting the pull between them.
And then he dreamed.
At first, it was harmless. He saw Zoe again. She was standing barefoot by the paddock fence, sunlight turning her hair to gold, her laughter meant just for him. But then the sound warped, hollowed out, and the world around him split, spinning until all that was left was Micah’s pale face.
Jackson jolted awake with a strangled sound in his throat, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. It took him a moment torealize where he was and to remember that he was safe. The clock read 2:03a.m.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and gave up on sleep altogether.
By the time the first light touched the barn windows, he was out with Xavier, halter in hand. The rhythmic clop of hooves on packed dirt, the steady pull of the reins, the faint snort of breath—it all grounded him. The barn smelled of hay and cedar shavings and life. Here, the world made sense.
But when he caught sight of himself in the tack room mirror, the truth stared back. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. He had gray smudges beneath his eyes, skin drawn tight, jaw clenched as if it had forgotten how to relax. Normally, he could pass it off, keep to himself. But tonight was family dinner, and Zoe was coming.
He thought about bailing. About calling his mom to say he’d caught a bug, or that something in the barn needed his attention. But he knew better. His parents weren’t blind.
They might not hear him in the night, not from the converted barn across the field, but they noticed when he was running on no sleep. When the lights in his apartment stayed on till morning. When he worked through breakfast and skipped lunch altogether.
They’d never said as much, but he saw it in the silent looks they shared. They knew when he was circling the edge again. And they were kind enough, merciful enough, not to ask. The ghost lived with him out there in the barn; everyone just pretended not to notice.
