“Maybe.” Penny’s voice is soft, like she doesn’t believe it.
“Maybe what? Maybe the fairy tale is dead? Maybe I’m just like every other cliché; the girl who falls in love with the villain, despite him telling her he was hiding something—”
“You love him?” Penny’s cuts me off.
“What the hell does it matter?”
“Tally, of course it matters.”
I don’t say anything for a beat. Walker isn’t some white knight in shining armor. But he’s not an evil villain, either. The truth is, he’s just a man trying to do what’s best for his family. He told me why he took the job, told me how he wanted to help Billie and Quinn. It makes sense why he did what he did, but it still hurts.
“I never hated it here,” I blurt out, dropping to the edge of the pull-out couch.
Penny plops down beside me and chuckles. “That’s all?”
I roll my eyes and then focus on the bookshelves that line her walls. She’s got a tiny apartment above her store. It’s got one bedroom, an open living space with a small kitchen, a table that can fit no more than two chairs, this sofa bed, and rows and rows of bookshelves.
There’s an entire store downstairs, filled to the brim with a rainbow of colorful spines, but that’s not enough for my bookworm of a sister. Up here are her trophies; the books that she’s read and loved over the years. Some have barelybeen opened, displayed only as beautiful treasures. Others are tattered and worn, like she searched every page for a word of comfort. I don’t miss how Jake Montgomery’s books are the most worn of the bunch. Though there’s not a drop of romance in Jake’s thrillers, I get the feeling Penny’s still searching for the love story.
That’s how my sister has always looked at the world, with rose-colored glasses, searching for beauty in all the black and white. Whereas I’ve simply been turning from page to page, living my life like it was an instruction manual.
Ironically, never once have I followed a recipe to the letter. Baking was the one place I allowed myself to go with the flow, and I thrived because of it. The same thing happened when I met Walker.
A smile tugs at my mouth. “I never hated this town. And I wasn’t avoiding coming home. I just never thought I had done enough to come back.”
Penny furrows her brow. “So you planned to come back?”
Turning to face my sister, the words spill out unfiltered. “I always wanted to open a bakery here. In Mabel’s old spot maybe.” I shrug at my sister’s shocked expression. “I’d spend the early hours baking, and after a morning rush, I could walk across the street and sit in your bookstore and we’d swap stories over a coffee. One day we’d meet men, and after work they’d take us to dinner on a double date. Or—” My eyes light up. “We’d go to trivia night at the brewery and annoy Rosie with requests for every odd drink we could think up to have her make.”
Penny laughs lightly.
“Eventually we’d both have kids, and we’d bring them tothe farm to see Mom and Daddy—” The words catch in my throat, and I blink, trying to stop the tears that I’m never quite ready to let flow.
Penny squeezes my hand. “That’s a good dream.”
My chin wobbles as I nod. “But now Daddy’s not here and I have no idea if there’ll even be a farm to come home to.”
“Tally.” Penny shakes her head. Like me, she’s just as lost when it comes to that dream. I know she shared it once. But now we’re both working with an entirely new plot.
“I just wish I knew what he was thinking when he took out that loan. What he used the money for. I wish we had a portal to summon him and ask these things, or that he left us a letter or a journal. I feel like that’s what happens in all good books …” I glance at my sister, and she nods for me to continue my ramblings. “I want answers, and the thing that sucks about death is that I don’t think we’ll ever get them.”
“Well, there is one way to get answers,” Penny says softly.
I shake my head. I can’t face Walker or my mom right now. Penny sighs and the bed dips as she turns to face me completely, her knee coming between us.
“Tally, things can’t always be perfect. If you’re waiting for your life to be packaged in a pretty bow, you’ll be waiting forever.”
“You sound like Walker.”
She shrugs. “You should talk to him. Keeping secrets is what got us into this.”
“No.” I shake my head, my eyes brightening as an idea comes to me. “What we need to do is to talk to the guy who wrote Walker that letter, offering to buy the farm. I bet you he’s the one who holds the loan. If we can find a way to payit, we can try to get the land back from Walker. Dammit, what was his name again?”
My sister—who has a photographic memory—blows out a breath and closes her eyes as she says, “Frank Seymour.”
“Yes!” I lift my phone, and ignoring all the texts I’ve received from Walker asking what time I’ll be home from my day at the salon, I google Frank’s name. “Look. He has a farm down in Connecticut! Sounds like it’s time for a girl’s trip!”
CHAPTER 49
