“What is it that you want?” she asks.
I look back down at the page, my fingers tracing over half-written names and crossed-out ideas.
“I think…” I exhale, swallowing the nervous lump in my throat. “I think that I don’t want it to just be jewelry anymore.”
Gran stays quiet, letting me work through it.
“I still want to do bespoke pieces. I want to honor what you built here because this place matters.” My eyes lift to hers. “But I want more than transactions, you know? I want people to come in and stay awhile. I want workshops and classes and community nights. I want people making things with their hands again instead of just scrolling through their phones.”
A smile starts tugging at the corner of Gran’s mouth. Encouraged, I keep going.
“I want this place to feel alive. Like it belongs to the neighborhood as much as it belongs to us. If we can help people connect or create something meaningful or even just feel less alone for a couple hours…” I shake my head lightly. “Maybe that matters.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
“Maybe that’s how we leave something good behind. Not just jewelry, but…” I glance around the shop. “An impression. A legacy. Something that adds value to our street, our block, our little corner of the world, one small piece at a time.”
Gran looks down at the paper again. Then, without hesitation, she taps one name with her finger.
“All right,” she says simply. “Then that’s the one.”
I follow her hand. The Sullivan Collective.
“This is your store now, Vivian.” Her voice is gentle but certain in that way only she can manage. “I had my turn building it. Now you get yours.” She reaches over, squeezing my hand. “I’ll happily sit back and become a silent partner while you turn this place into whatever beautiful thing is living in that head of yours.”
My eyes sting instantly.
“And for the record,” she adds dryly, “I fully expect preferential treatment when you become wildly successful.”
A laugh escapes me at the exact same moment my vision blurs. She leans in, presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head, lingering there for a second before she pulls back.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Look, my dear,” she says, her voice softer now, but steady. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your mother years ago. You can’t run from anything. No matter how far you go, or what you do. Whether you cross oceans, like she did, or hide yourself away somewhere quiet”—her gaze flicks meaningfully around the shop—“and think you’re shutting the world out, italways comes back to you. You’re the one you have to live with.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask her, genuinely confused.
“Because, you’re sitting here on a Friday night working. And I know you’re going to tell me you have to be here to fix that trophy for tomorrow, but we both know you’re avoiding your own thoughts.”
Something in my chest hitches, but I let her keep going.
“I want to make sure you’re right on the inside, in your heart. That you feel steady. That you feel good about the choices you’re making.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “And also, I need you to go see that man of yours.”
I toss my head back and laugh. “Gran?—”
“No, let me speak. You know what he’s dealing with,” she says gently, cutting me off in the kindest way possible. “We all have our journeys. Our things we’re working through. But it’s not the worst thing in the world to reach out and go through it with someone else, is it?”
I shake my head, quiet now. “No, it’s not, but he has to let me in.”
“Sometimes, we need to go knock first.” She smiles, satisfied with herself, and gives my hand one last squeeze before stepping back. “Now walk me out before I decide to stay and reorganize your entire workspace.”
I huff out a laugh and slide off the stool, following her to the front. The bell above the door gives a little jingle as I unlock it for her, the cool night air slipping in around us.
“Drive safe,” I say, leaning in to hug her.
“Always do,” she murmurs, squeezing me tight before pulling away.
I watch her go, waiting until she’s safely in her car before I step back inside and lock the door behind her.
