up from the chair and raced for the hall closet, yanking her coat off the hangar and shoving it at her as she strode out the door.
“No, don’t try to round it out!” She waved at me frantically in farewell, then opened her car door. “No, I’m not mad, it could have happened to me, too. It’ll grow back—” Her voice cut off as she got into the car.
“Good luck!” I called out as she drove the semicircle back to the main road, only to have her spot taken by the courier. “One second!” I said, dashing back inside to grab the envelope, and brought the roses, too. “Here, Tom. Take these for your wife.”
“You sure?” he asked, eyeing the roses.
“Absolutely.”
“Hold on, I have a delivery for you,” he said, exchanging my envelope and the roses for a medium-size package. I signed for it, noting the return address of Gran’s lawyer.
Right. It would have been my seventh wedding anniversary. At least she wasn’t here to see what a hot mess that had ended up being. I carried the package in, shut the door, then plopped down on the bottom step of the staircase, setting the box next to me.
Noah Harrison’s painful, emotionally sadistic ending to Scarlett Stanton’s own love story is unforgivable. I sighed and stared at the box, wishing there was some easy answer to all of this. Or maybe there was, and Hazel was right—I was standing in my own way.
I leaned forward and took my cell out of my vest pocket, then opened my messages and typed out a text.
GEORGIA: I’m so sorry about the reviews.
I truly was, but my heart wouldn’t stop screaming joyfully that he’d kept his promise.
The message showed delivered, not read. Who knew when he’d get around to seeing it, anyway. Or maybe he’d never open it.
“From Ice Queen to Hot Mess. Not sure that’s an improvement,” I muttered, picking up Gran’s package. The tape gave way easily, which was convenient, since I didn’t have Noah…or his pocketknife.
Inside there were three manila envelopes. The one labeled read me second was thickest. I set it and the third to the side, then opened the one designated first and pulled out a letter. My heart throbbed, bittersweet at the sight of her handwriting.
Dearest Georgia,
Today is your wedding anniversary. If I’m right about the decline of my health, it’s your seventh. That seventh was a big one for your Grandpa Brian and me. He had just been diagnosed, everything went sideways, and it was all we could do to hold on to each other.
I hope your seventh goes smoother.
But just in case it doesn’t, I thought it was time you truly understand the depth of love that created you. You, my dearest one, are the product of generations of love, not just the infatuations that some experience but true, deep, soul-mending loves that even time cannot separate.
I hope by now you’ve cleaned out my closet—no, not that one. The other one. Yes, that one, where all the shirts have been replaced by pages courtesy of that little typewriter that has been my constant companion through the joy and the heartache. I hope you’ve found the little alcove in the back of the second shelf. If not, go look—I’ll wait right here.
Found it? Good. This was the work I could never bring myself to truly end. The work that was started for my darling William. I’m sorry I never let you read it while I was with you. My excuses are endless, but the truth is I was afraid you’d see straight through me.
You’ll find that it ends on what had been up until then—the hardest day of my life. The day I lost my sister, my best friend, while still reeling from the loss of the love of my life. That day has only since been eclipsed by the snowy evening that stole William and Hannah. Our family has never been without our share of tragedy, has it?
The story is yours to read now, Georgia. Take your time. I’ve dabbled with it over the years, adding bits and pieces from memory, then setting it aside. Once you reach the end, once you’re there with me on that war-torn street in Ipswich, covered in dust, I want you to read through the letters bundled at the top of the manuscript.
These are the true testament to the love that created you, the fact behind the moments of embellished fiction. Once you feel that love, taste the acrid smoke