I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “Good.”
“Goodnight,” I added, turning to twist the knob.
“Goodnight, Georgie,” he responded, but I was already slipping inside.
Easton’s cries dropped to a whine the second I stepped foot in the house, as if he was excited to seeRhett, not me. I let my backpack hit the floor, slumping against the door and tugging my palms across my flaming face.
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there, head in my hands, before I finally gave up. Easton had sniffed my jeans and left me for the couch, presumably only interested in any lingering vestiges of Rhett’s smell, and not the woman who fed and housed him.
Kicking off my sneakers, I lingered on the rug in the foyer for a few beats. It was late. I should probably get to bed. But my hot chocolate ritual was calling, and I needed it more than ever.
I flicked on the kitchen light, the bulb humming to life overhead, and reached for the old blue tin of cocoa tucked behind the packets of cheaper stuff. The lid squeaked like it always had, a sound so ordinary it tugged at something in my chest. My grandmother never measured the powder—she always claimed she “measured with love”—but I used the dented teaspoon she’d left in the tin anyway. One, two, three scoops, the way she did it when I was young and she let me stay up late during a particularly loud thunderstorm.
The pot of water bubbled as I filled the chipped Morning Bell mug, steam curling against my face. That familiar, chocolatey smell was almost instant, flooding my senses like a memory in itself. I reached for the cinnamon jar without thinking and sprinkled just a whisper across the top, the way she used to when she wanted to make it feel “fancy.”
I smiled to myself, remembering how I’d sneak into the kitchen and pile marshmallows into the mug when she wasn’t looking. Shealwaysknew, of course. “Cocoa’s supposed tosoothe you, Georgette, not send you into a sugar fit,” she’d scold, but her eyes always crinkled with laughter when she said it.
Tonight, with no one around to judge me, I grabbed the bag from the pantry and plunked in three big marshmallows, just to feel twelve years old again.
I cradled the mug between my palms, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The first sip was always the best—the kind that melted across my tongue and settled in my chest.
Leaning against the counter, the coolness of the tile seeped through my shirt. Then, something rectangular and cream-colored caught my eye in the moonlight streaming through the window.
My stomach twisted, a frigid wave of guilt washing over me. I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten. I was so consumed with the Summer’s End Festival, and the gala, and a certain dark-eyed, tattooed carpenter, that I’d completely neglected my grandmother’s last words to me.
My vision blurred; I blinked hard, but it only made the letters swim.
Letter under one arm, I scooted an unconscious Easton that had sprawled himself across the living room couch, sitting beside him. I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders even though I wasn’t cold, set my mug aside and stared at the purple swoops and curls of my name.
I wiped at my bleary eyes, gathered an uneven breath, and gingerly ripped the seal. The paper inside was thick and soft, but I could see the indentations even from the other side. My fingers shook as I unfurled it.
My dearest Georgette,
If you are reading this, it means I’ve gone and left you on your own. (Don’t you roll your eyes at me.) You’re stubbornenough to think you don’t need my words, but I know you well enough to believe you’ll read every line twice.
First, you must know this: you were never meant to be me. Bluebell Cove doesn’t need another Marigold. It needs you—Georgie Wheeler, with your clever hands and your soft heart and your way of finding light in places I would’ve overlooked.
You’ve grown up under my shadow, and I know I cast a long one. People told me I was larger than life, but sometimes I worry I was simply loud enough to drown out other voices. Please don’t let mine be the only one in your head.
Running the flower shop was never about keeping it the same. It was about keeping it alive. And life, my girl, is a changing, breathing, stubborn thing. You don’t need to preserve it in amber. You need to let it stretch its wings—just as you must stretch yours.
I can’t tell you what your dreams are. Only you can decide that. Maybe they’re tucked in the Cove, maybe they’re out in the wide world. Maybe they’re in the arms of someone I wish I could’ve met. Wherever those dreams are, don’t be afraid of them. Don’t put them off for “later,” because later has a habit of slipping away.
Remember what I used to say whenever we burned a batch of cookies? “Well, Georgie, we’ll just start again.” Life is no different. Don’t be afraid to start again. Don’t be afraid to fail. Don’t be afraid to want.
I loved this town with every bit of myself. But I loved you more. If the Cove ever asks you to give up the one thing that makes you truly happy, then it is asking too much.
So promise me, Georgette: whatever you choose, let it be yours. Not mine. Not anyone else’s. Yours.
All my love,
Your grandmother
She was right. I read it again. Then once more, because I couldn’t bear to stop hearing her voice.
Sinking back into the couch, I carefully laid the letter across my lap. My cheeks had been wet since I started reading, but it wasn’t from sadness—it was because, for the first time in years, I could hear her voice again.
Buried beneath it all—the relief, the joy, the grief—was something sharp and stinging. I wished I had known. I wished I hadn’t spent four years struggling and scraping by and holding onto that dream of hers by the tips of my fingers. There was nothing I wanted more than to make her proud, even if that meant sacrificing my future.
