Page 95 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“Turns out this is private land. It was owned by the couple who told you that story.”

“Was? Did they pass away?”

“Carl, the man you met, has passed, but his wife, Margaret, is still alive. She lives in an elder-care facility in Connecticut, and her daughter will eventually inherit the property. I went to see Margaret a couple of weeks ago. She’s a doll. She said they told a few people each year about the orchard. Their hope was that they’d seed enough curiosity that those people would never stop hoping and dreaming and looking for the magic that’s all around them. She remembered you, El.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She called you the brave little girl from the campsite who didn’t want to be bothered with an old couple but put up with them anyway.”

“Oh no. They could tell? That’s horrible.” The sounds of the glass baubles grows louder as we near the orchard.

“She said it was typical for a girl your age. She said you were tough at first but so curious you couldn’t stop yourself from asking if wishes ever really came true.”

“I can’t believe she remembered that.”

“Mm-hm.” He holds me tighter as we come to the trees and says, “And I thought you should know they do.”

“Seth” comes out shaky. “Nobody has ever tried to make my wishes come true before, and here you gave me something I didn’t even know I was wishing for. Thank you.” I go up on my toes, and he meets me halfway in a tender kiss.

The orchard is even more magnificent up close, every bauble unique. Some are perfectly round ornaments. Others are oddly shaped, hand-blown glass that catch the light like jewels. The colors themselves feel like magic, shimmering in blues, ambers, greens, and golds. Sunlight filters through them as they sway in the breeze, casting ribbons of color across the ground, and just as the couple had said, there are handwritten notes on every one of them.

“Is it me, or does the air feel different? Like the orchard radiates hope?” The thought takes me by surprise, but it feels as real as the ground we’re standing on.

“It’s not only you. I feel it, too,” he says, running his hand along my back.

“There are so many messages.” I start to read them. A promise of love, a hope for a better life, and a message from a grief-stricken widow, all bravely inked onto glass. “I shouldn’t read these. They’re too private.”

I turn to Seth and find him taking pictures of me. My cheeks heat. “You caught me eavesdropping on people’s lives.”

“No, sweetheart. I caught you living your own.” He shrugs off the backpack and unzips it. “I brought you something.”

He withdraws a pink glass bottle. “I thought you might want to leave your own message.”

“A bottle?”

He pulls a notepad and a pen out of the backpack and waves them. “Ink wears off glass. You’ve had enough disappear from your life. A message left inside the glass will last forever.”

My insides tremble. He has no idea what he’s given me. How this simple gesture feels like a hand closing around all my broken pieces. My chest aches with everything I want to say, but all I can do is stand there, because anything I say will fall short. What do you say to the man who sees more of you than anyone else ever has?

“I love that idea,” I finally manage. “Will you write a message, too? We can both put them in the bottle.”

He gives me a boyish grin and reaches into his leather jacket, pulling out a tiny scroll tied with a pink ribbon. “I already did.”

I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh.

“You think that’s funny, Nunnally?”

“I think it’s adorable. You’re always so prepared.”

“It’s a good thing. It took me three days to decide what to write.”

I love that more than anything. “What did you write?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he says with a serious expression. “Rumor has it, if you tell your wishes, they won’t come true.” He hands me the notebook and pen. “Take your time.”

“Do I get three days?”

“Sweetheart, you get all the time you want.”