When it faded, Belle wiped her hands on a towel. “Hey, what are you doing Saturday?”
“Probably laundry,” I said. “And pretending my life’s together.”
“Cancel your glamorous laundry plans,” she said with a grin. “The Grimm Reapers are having their spring picnic. It’s a roller skating thing at the park. Ya know, skates, games, food, music, the whole thing. You should come.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” she said. “You liked the bout, right? This is the family version. Lower risk of concussions, higher risk of friendship bracelets.”
I raised a brow. “That’s quite a sales pitch.”
She shrugged, smiling. “You could bring Ava. There’s a little path where kids skate, and the team’s doing a charity booth for the Penguin Project. Plus, it’s basically the most fun you can have in daylight.”
I hesitated. “You really think we’d fit in?”
Belle leaned her hip against the counter. “Eleanor, everyone fits in. That’s kind of the point.”
The simple confidence in her voice made something in my chest ease.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Yeah. We’ll come.”
Belle grinned. “Good. I’ll save you a spot on the blanket. But fair warning, I plan to win the three-legged race this year.”
I smiled back, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. “You strike me as the competitive type.”
“Oh, you haveno idea,” she said, tossing a strawberry at me.
I caught it, laughing, and for a moment, the house didn’t feel like my mother’s for just a moment.
Belle rinsed the knife and set it in the drying rack. “So, what are you going to do with your sudden day of freedom? Spa day? Couch day? Full-blown rebellion?”
I smiled faintly. “Honestly? I think I might actually try to work for a bit.”
Belle tilted her head, curious. “Work work or ‘pretend to be productive while scrolling’ work?”
“The first one, hopefully.” I hesitated, twisting the strawberry stem between my fingers. “I . . . used to write and illustrate children’s books.”
Her face lit up. “No way. That’s incredible.”
“It was,” I said quietly. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”
Belle leaned against the counter, giving me her full attention, not pushing, just waiting. “What stopped you?”
I took a breath, then another. “My husband died. A little over a year ago.”
Her expression softened instantly, all that wild energy quieting into something gentle. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at the counter, tracing the grain of the wood. “He was my biggest cheerleader. I think . . . I just couldn’t make anything without him. Every time I tried, it felt wrong. Like the color got drained out of everything.”
Belle nodded, not with pity but understanding. “Grief does that. It makes the world grayscale. Until one day you pick up a brush or a pen, and realize there’s still a little color left.”
Her words hit deeper than she probably knew.
“I think,” I said softly, “I’m finally starting to see the color again.”
Belle smiled, small but sure. “Then that’s your sign. Go make something, even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.”
I laughed quietly. “You’re kind of bossy.”
