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“Yeah?”

“Would you maybe want to help me do a report on icing cookies?” she asked shyly.

“I would love to, kiddo,” I said, stopping what I was doing to grin at her. “That would be fun.”

“Let’s not get carried away. It’s still schoolwork,” Viv said, grinning back, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “But I get to pick the music.”

THIRTY-FOUR

The next morning, the sun came out as though it hadn’t been hiding for the better part of two weeks and as though our lives hadn’t almost taken an impossibly tragic turn the previous day.

We weren’t the only ones who couldn’t resist getting outside as quickly as possible. The whole town seemed to be out in the street, cleaning up debris and swapping storm horror stories. Everyone agreed that ours was by far the one with the happiest ending, especially when Merry reenacted spreading ice cream all over his shirt.

By tacit agreement, Fiona and I decided to keep the shop closed one more day so we could make the most of what everyone assured us would be a short-lived respite from the rain. Which is how, once the sidewalk in front of the store was free of broken branches and other things the wind had deposited at our doorstep, the four of us made a beeline for the beach to see what the churning stormwaters had washed up.

My impossibly full heart almost ached in the best possible way as I watched Viv and Merry run up and down the beach, showing each other the sea glass and stone treasures they found among the more mundane rocks and chunks of driftwood. I’d worked so hard to adjust to the idea that I’d never have kids of my own, I’d forgotten that there were other ways to build families. Art’s kids might not have been in my life long, but they’d already carved permanent spots for themselves in my soul.

“Everything okay?” Art asked, slipping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me close.

“I really want to say yes, because this feels like too perfect a moment to burden with what’s on my heart, but there’s that whole radical honesty thing you keep harping on about,” I teased.

“I do love me some radical honesty, that’s for sure,” Art said, grinning down at me. “But if you’d rather wait, I don’t mind.” He kissed me gently on the head.

The words that came out of my mouth surprised us both. “You know, I think I’d like to share now, if that’s okay.”

“Always, my love. Share away,” Art said.

“You know those nebulous dreams we all have as children? How we picture our grown-up lives will be?”

“Uh-huh. I wanted to be Batman.”

I laughed. “That tracks, actually. Philanthropist with cool toys who hides his true self behind a mask.”

“Touché,” Art laughed, clasping his hand over his chest as though I’d speared him.

“What did you want?” he asked, releasing my shoulder so he could take my hand in his as we followed in the children’s wake.

“This.” I gestured around me.

Art frowned. “A storm-ravaged beach on the rustic coast of Scotland?”

“No, silly,” I laughed, jostling him playfully. “This.” I gestured again, being sure to include only him and the kids. “A kind, caring man who sees me clearly and loves what he sees. Incredible, funny, smart kids. It’s the whole package.”

“But…?” he prompted.

As always, I was stunned by how well he read me.

“But I also wanted that,” I said, gesturing toward The Enchanted Thistle, “just as much.”

“And?” Art asked, frowning as if he couldn’t follow my train of thought.

“One day, I’ll have to choose, won’t I? Maybe not this week, but eventually, your contract will be up, and you’ll have to leave. And I’ll have to decide whether to stay with my shop or go back with you.”

“I see,” Art said, nodding slowly.

I shrugged, as if part of my heart hadn’t just splintered. We might have been standing on the beach with months to go before any decision had to be made, but I’d always be standing with one foot in each timeline, the one where I stayed in my wonderful little shop, decorating cookies to my heart’s content, and the one where I went home with the people who held my heart in their hands.

I laughed. “You know? If I were writing this story, I’d find a way to give the characters the perfect Happily Ever After ending. But this isn’t fiction.” I smiled sadly as the truth of what I was about to say sunk in. “This is real life, and I don’t get to control the ending.”