SAVE THE SUMMER’S END FESTIVAL!
COME TO MARIGOLD’S TONIGHT AT 7PM.
No one could mistake that.
Easton whined beside me on the couch, desperate for some attention but too sleepy from our walk to do much about it. Bythe time I finished, my right hand ached and my eyes burned. I only allowed myself a brief break before launching from the couch to scavenge for some old colored markers.
They were leftover from high school—fuchsia, tangerine, lilac and teal—but I was sure that the vibrant,somewhatclashing shades would attract attention. My cheeks hurt from smiling when I held it up to the window’s light.
“Genius,” I whispered. “Why didn’t I go into marketing?”
I glanced at my phone to check the time, then squeaked out a sound of mild panic and raced across the house to my grandmother’s old office. A plume of dust shot into the air as I shoved a tower of cardboard boxes aside. Momentarily choking, I bent over and tried not to crumple my hard-earned sign.
The office sat untouched for years. A small window looked out to the street and my wilting window boxes, pouring mote-filled sunlight across a modest desk and computer. My grandmother spent an entire month painting a mural of lavender fields on all four walls, which were now mostly hidden by a skyline of boxes.
Besides the packed funeral and the weeks-long parade of lasagna and casserole, I dealt with her passing alone. The girl who struggled to pay a credit card bill on time was forced to make decisions that she had never even thought of before.
It took me a year to begin moving her things into the office. Boxes upon boxes of clothes, knickknacks, and costume jewelry filled the room. I supposed that someone more mature would’ve given it all away—but I couldn’t take that step just yet.
So, the office became a waiting room for everything I wasn’t ready to confront. This quasi-mausoleum was better than being reminded of her absence every time I turned a corner.
Grief was a funny thing. Denial to acceptance wasn’t a straight line. Over the years, I’d find myself right back at the start—tossed out to sea, struggling to surface again. I neverwanted to dredge up all that sorrow just to bury it. No matter how sharply the aches persisted, it was proof that I loved her.
I traced my palm over a nearby container and smiled. Deep in my heart, I thought she might be proud of me for this.
The printer on her desk was left dormant for ages. Thankfully, a stack of paper remained unused in the tray. After setting my sign inside to scan, I perched on the edge of the desk and let my eyes drift across the mountain range of cardboard. Perhaps one day soon, now that I felt a bit more like myself, I’d sort through everything and finally decide what to part with.
Heaving a sigh, I plopped into her leather chair and kicked up my feet. I doubted the printer had enough paper or ink for what I’d queued up, but either way, I’d be here a while.
It didn’t take long before I grew bored with staring at my shoes and the little printer that could. My notebook was still in the living room—and, feeling about as lazy as Easton—I drummed my fingers on the desk and tugged the drawer open.
And my heart immediately jumped to my throat.
Nestled among pens, rubber bands, and neon sticky notes lay a cream-colored envelope with my name scrawled across it. I stood at attention and picked it up with shaky hands. When her executor read the will, no personal note accompanied it. No final wishes from beyond the grave.
I was to be given the house and Marigold’s Flower Shop. No frills, and nothing to misinterpret. To me, the message was clear:take care of this for me, Georgette.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, unsure if I was able to breathe. I didn’t want to blink for fear that it would disappear and all of this would’ve been a cruel trick of my imagination.
The printer beeped. That envelope was still in my hand.
I gathered a shaking breath and shook my head. Of course, Marigold was not Marigold without that ceaseless penchant for the dramatic. A quiet laugh of disbelief slipped from my lips as Idragged my thumb over the impression left by the big swoops of her purple-penned cursive.
The printer beeped again. I was right; it ran out of ink.
A stack of copies under one arm, I shuffled out to the kitchen. The pot of water I’d started had been long abandoned, and I kept forgetting there was nowhere to sit anymore. Sighing, I placed the envelope on my counter and vowed to read it later that night. Who knew what kind of wreck I’d be afterward.
Beside it, I fanned out my papers, unable to keep the giddy smile from my mouth.
???
By mid-afternoon, I shrugged on a sweater over my shirt and headed out again. I stuffed a roll of painter’s tape and a stapler into my backpack and set off on foot with Easton trotting contentedly at my side.
Main Street buzzed more than it had all week. The smell of fried dough from Captain’s mingled with the salty sea breeze, gulls screamed overhead as they soared out to the beach, and I spotted a few new faces snapping pictures on the sidewalk.
I began at the Cove Market. Mrs. Henderson stood behind the counter inside, arms folded, her eyebrows steadily climbing into her hairline as she watched me tape a multihued sign to the bulletin board by the door.
“What’s all this, Georgie?” she asked.
