Page 120 of My Favorite Hero

“I don’t know how much my mom knew—if they ever talked about it. I hope they did. I hope she was able to share some stories of her life.”

“I called Sims.”

“Already?”

He took a sip of coffee, looking serious. He was still wearing his glasses, the round rims giving him a professor-type look. It suited him. “I told him you found the journal and what you thought she wanted. He said you were right.”

“What would have happened if I hadn’t?”

“Sims was a good friend to Lou and knew her wishes. He would have scattered them if a year had gone by. But he said she hoped you would be the one to do it. It meant a lot to her.” He paused, taking my hand. “You meant a lot to her—even after all this time.”

I nodded sadly. “I wish I had found her sooner.”

He squeezed my hand. “Maybe then, we wouldn’t have found each other.”

I blinked at his words.

“I think Lou hoped we would,” he added.

I had to admit, I thought he was right.

“Anyway, Sims was going to call the funeral home, and we can pick up the ashes today. It’s a little overcast, but tomorrow is supposed to be sunny. We could scatter them then?”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll get the box of pictures down from the guest room closet, and we can go through it later.”

“Okay.”

“I was hoping for breakfast?” he asked. “Maybe one of your omelets?”

“I can do that.”

He smiled. “Great.”

That afternoon, we opened the box. Lou’s ashes were on the table, the bright-blue urn adorned with a daisy, making me feel sad and happy at the same time. It felt as if she was with us, watching as we looked at pictures. The color and the daisy were like our matching glasses, and I recalled her loving daisies. We used to pick them and make crowns, wearing them all day.

The box was a treasure trove. There were more wedding pictures and even one of them standing in place, her holding a bouquet of daisies and tiny roses and wearing the yellow dress. She was tall for a woman, and Gerard was at least six inches taller, making them a striking couple. There were pictures of his family. One of them taken in this house. Jesse was interested in those, comparing them to the house now and murmuring about putting the house back to its former glory.

“I’ve always hoped that under that wall is a matching wooden rail. I bet they built around it,” he muttered, indicating the staircase.

“I guess you’ll find out after I’m gone.”

He frowned and looked at me, then returned to the photos. I picked up a pile and gasped.

“What?”

“It’s me,” I said, showing him a picture. It was Lou and me, sitting in the kitchen, crafting. We were both smiling, our fingers covered in whatever project she had us working on. I looked happy, and she was beaming. “I think my mom must have taken the picture.”

He looked at others. “There are lots of you. You were adorable.”

I stood and peered over his shoulder. There were several. Me laughing, playing, eating roasted marshmallows by a fire. Sleeping on the same sofa that I’d recovered. Hamming it up for the camera. In a dress, obviously for Easter, with a basket over my arm. My mom must have insisted.

“She had so many,” I said in wonder. “When I went through my parents’ things, there were hardly any. School pictures and the occasional photo, but not like these.”

“She loved you,” Jesse said simply.

I felt the tears well, and I could only nod. He pulled me to his lap and pressed a kiss to my head. “You deserved to be loved by everyone, Pixie. But I’m glad you had her.”