here. It’s been surreal, you know. I’m all alone. It doesn’t feel right to be back in Sweet Home with all of you gone.” His only consolation . . . Dad was still alive.
“Beau, I want you to know that I’ve never forgiven Hope for what she did to you. For cutting your life short.” A part of Donovan knew it was ridiculous to defend his brother’s honor in this way, but he couldn’t help it. “And I never will forgive her, I promise.”
Another gust of wind blew through, but this time, from the tree above, a truckload of snow tumbled down, bashing Donovan’s head, almost like it was on purpose.
“What the . . .” Donovan looked up at the tree.
He spoke to the sky, the trees, to whoever, whatever. “I don’t believe in signs!” But he could almost hear Beau telling him, Get over it, bro. Leave the past in the past. Something Rick had said a time or two over the years.
No, Donovan didn’t believe in signs, but maybe just this once he would.
“All right, I’ll forgive Hope.” Or he’d try to. In my own sweet time. “But I’m not going to tell her that I forgive her.” Hope didn’t deserve to know.
“Just one more thing before I go,” Donovan said. “I want to tell you that I wrote you while I was at boot camp.” With no television, Internet, or phone calls, he’d had no distractions from his grief. And no alcohol, either, to dull the pain. “I really missed you, you know? I still do.” He should admit the rest, too. “I also wrote to Hope. Every day. I pretended like none of this had ever happened, that she and I were still in love, and that you weren’t here in the cemetery. Nan, too. That Sweet Home was still the way it was when we were young, happy, and stupid.” Those were magical times, but the Disney movie was over, the reel destroyed. “I never sent the letters, obviously. She’ll never know about them.” They were hidden at home, top shelf in his closet. Out of sight, out of mind.
Now, here he was, standing in the cold—chilled from the snow pummeling his head—and admitting everything to Beau, and the pain was back in full force. And the strange thing was . . . the only person who might really understand what he was going through was Hope. The one person he could never open up to again.
* * *
• • •
HOPE STOOD LOOKING out the front window as the sun came out. It hadn’t been out in days and she felt pulled to the Hungry Bear’s storefront window, soaking up as much sunshine as she could.
She was also looking for signs of life. For the past three days, she’d expected to see Donovan in the store buying fresh meat and vegetables. Man—no, men—cannot live on junk food alone. But Hope hadn’t seen him or Rick in the store. Or around town, for that matter. Had Donovan left Sweet Home without telling anyone good-bye? At least he should have had the courtesy to say something to Piney, for goodness’ sake.
She shivered. Or had he been in an accident and was lying dead in a ravine somewhere? She sent up a prayer that Donovan was okay . . . wherever he was.
Hope had done her best to keep busy. After work on Tuesday evening, she called Miss Lisa to reschedule the quilt tour of her home because Ella was studying for a test at Lacy’s. With all the studying Ella was doing, Hope expected good grades at report card time. She spent the evening alone, cutting apart Izzie’s clothes for the Memory Tree quilt. On Wednesday, Hope took Ella to Miss Lisa’s quaint house, as promised. Ella, surprisingly, enjoyed the visit, complete with tea, homemade pound cake, and oohing and aahing over the beautiful quilt collection. When they got home, Hope made a fresh stack of bags for the Hungry Bear, which meant cash for her next installment to the utility company. And last night, she cleaned her little house from top to bottom, wondering the whole time if Donovan was truly gone.
Yes, he probably was, but she stared out the window anyway, waiting for something to happen. The morning rush, which had ended an hour ago, had consisted of Mr. Brewster having a cup of coffee, while Paige Holiday, a friend from Hope’s youth, ran in for two bananas and five pounds of flour.
Outside, Courtney Wolf