“That’s easy for you to say when everything worked out for you. It’s a lot harder when facing the unknown.”
“Not everything worked out for me,” my mom says starkly. And I’m immediately put in my place. How can I say everything worked out when we lost Dad? “No, not everything works out,” she sighs. “But most things do, eventually. That’s why we forget how hard it is to be young. So many things worked out for us over time, it’s easy to forget how hard it is to live with uncertainty. Looking at you, I can’t help but think of all the good stuff ahead. Yes, life holds surprises—some good, some bad, some terrible. But all in all, there’s still so much happiness ahead of you.”
“I feel that,” says my sister. She jumps to her feet. “What we need is a group hug!” She pulls us both up to our feet and hugs me. My mother wraps her arms around both of us.
“I am so lucky to have you two.”
It feels good to have their arms tight around me, but neither this hug nor my mom’s words can completely quiet the panic in my heart.
Know your own happiness. —Sense and Sensibility
19
Edward
I still have my job, so there’s that. And Elinor’s letter is secure in my notebook—a tangible reminder that even after what happened on the beach, she forgave me enough to write me.
Of course, that doesn’t mean she’s not angry. I found the note in our mailbox last week, immediately after Lucinda’s visit to Norland Park, so Elinor left it before learning the truth about Bumble Cottage. Regardless, I’m afraid Lucinda’s efforts to drive a wedge between us has worked. I texted Elinor to let her know I’d be visiting Norland Park this weekend, and she replied with a thumbs up.
That put me firmly in my place. I can’t try the direct approach and ask her on a date, because I still haven’t broken up with my maybe-girlfriend. Not for lack of trying! I did my best to schedule time with Caroline, but she’s been too busy. Or perhaps she’s just not that interested. I know I’m not.
My focus this week has been Elinor. More specifically, finding some way to save Bumble Cottage. If I can solve that problem, maybe I haven’t completely ruined things between us. I’ve reviewed the plans for Norland Park, looking for a better location for the restaurant. The only other option I can see is the field where Lady Whimple stands. But there’s no way we can cut the tree down. When I explained this to Lucinda she just cackled, “Edward, it’s atree!”
I don’t bother explaining to her that it’s a wishing tree. Or that, before leaving Norland Park, I asked Annie for a ribbon and a sharpie. I had intended to writeElinoron my ribbon. But it seemed kind of wrong to wish for a person. So instead Iwrote:A miracle. I climbed the tree and tied the ribbon on a high branch, all the while willing my thoughts to God—or the universe, or Grandpa Reginald—to help me to fix this mess. It felt good to do something, to see my wish rippling in the wind. But I’m not going to tell Lucinda—or anyone else—about it.
I spend hours at my kitchen table writing draft after draft in reply to Elinor’s note. Mrs. Peacock watches me litter the floor with my failed attempts, swatting the crumpled balls of paper from time to time. I go back and forth between writing an apology or continuing the farce that we are simply childhood pen pals who don’t interact in real life. I settle on something in the middle.
I hope it’s enough when I place my letter in the mailbox Friday evening. The sun so is low that all the morning glory blossoms have twisted closed. Long shadows alternating with honeyed light pattern the gravel road leading up to Brandon’s empty cottage, where I’ll leave my luggage before dinner.
Brandon texted me and told me to meet him and Pepper at the Taphouse and sent a pin for the local pub. The place is hopping tonight. It’s full of locals greeting each other by name with hugs, effortlessly jumping into conversations that sound like they’ve been going on for the past decade. I stand out like a sore thumb.
Each knot of friends steps aside to let me pass on my way to the bar. After I place my order, I take my number to a booth in the most out-of-the-way corner. I can’t help but eavesdrop on some of the conversations. Some guy updates a woman about his sorry dating life. He’s long held a torch for Annie Greenwood, but has decided that she’s too young for him. I sneak a glance at him. He’s wearing a ball cap that reads Beaver Tree Service. He appears to be on the wrong side of forty. Definitely too old for Annie.
“What about her sister?” suggests the woman.
“Elinor? The ice queen? Good luck with that. Everyone knows she doesn’t date,” says a different voice.
“Such a shame,” says Beaver Tree Service.
I take a sip of my beer and nod.
“Speaking of Elinor, look who just walked in,” says one of the locals. I stand up without thinking. Through an archway I can see the entrance and bar. Sure enough I see her, making her way through the crowd. She’s so lovely and self-contained; she stands out in the crowd like a perfect seashell on a rocky shore. Several guests stop her for a hug before she reaches the bartender—definitely not an ice queen. Another person calls her name, and she turns back and notices me, staring at her. The only option is to wave.
She waves back with a cute, dazed expression, then returns to the bartender to place her order. I slide back down in my booth, feeling more like an outsider than before as various guests continue to call to her.
“Elinor!”
“Look who finally took a night off.”
“I love your hair down!”
She laughs. “I even blow-dried it,” she says.
I find myself itching to crane my neck to get a second look at her—and to see who she’s talking to. To distract myself, I pull out my phone. But nothing on it holds my interest as much as all the loud voices welcoming Elinor.
“You’re finally doing something fun!”
“Good for you!’
