Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Lila
I tell myself I'm not hiding behind the cereal display at Jensen's General Store, I'm taking my time selecting breakfast food. The fact that it gives me a perfect view of the produce section, where Sarah Miller and her friends are picking through the tomatoes, is purely coincidental.
"...living with his father can't be easy," Betty Watson says, weighing a tomato in her palm. "Those two never did see eye to eye, especially after Graham's mother passed."
"Well, what choice does he have?" Sarah adjusts her glasses importantly. "From what I hear, his fancy landscaping business out west wasn't doing so well. Probably couldn't afford to hire someone to look after Joe."
My hand tightens on the shopping basket. They don't know what they're talking about. They don't know Graham at all.
"Still," Betty lowers her voice, though not enough, "you have to wonder how long it'll last. You remember how it was before, them butting heads about everything. Joe wanted him to get a job, settle down, Graham wanted baseball..."
"And now he's playing in the dirt instead." Sarah's laugh sets my teeth on edge. "Though I suppose that's fitting, the way he treated Lila. Remember how destroyed she was when he left?"
I close my eyes, willing myself to move, to walk away, to do anything but stand here letting their words sink into my skin.
"Speaking of Lila..." Betty's voice drips with fake concern. "Did you see them at the dinner tonight? Looking awful cozy."
"She's a stopgap." This is from Margaret Chen, who's been quietly sorting through bell peppers. "Something familiar while he figures out what's next. Men like Graham Hart don't put down roots. They just pause between adventures."
The cereal box I'm holding crumples slightly in my grip. I force my fingers to relax, carefully straightening the cardboard.
"Poor Lila," Sarah sighs. "Always waiting for him to choose her."
"Choose her?" Betty scoffs. "He's barely managing to choose staying in town. Mark my words, the first big fight with his father, and he'll be gone again. Some people aren't meant for small-town life."
I've heard enough. I step out from behind the display, and the sudden silence is almost comical. Three pairs of eyes widen in recognition.
"Lila!" Sarah's voice rises an octave. "We were..."
"Discussing the tomatoes?" I keep my voice light, reaching past them to select two perfectly ripe ones. "They do look good tonight. Sarah mentioned she needed some for the diner." I pause, meeting each of their gazes. "Funny how people can change, isn't it? Things that seemed green and hard yesterday might turn out to be perfectly ripe today."
I drop the tomatoes in my basket, along with my crumpled cereal box, and head for the checkout. Behind me, I hear their whispered conversation resume, but I focus on the gentle clicking of the ancient ceiling fan, the smell of fresh coffee from the sample pot, and the familiar squeak of my shoes on the worn linoleum.
"Don't let them get to you." Hale's voice is kind as he rings up my groceries. His family has owned this store since before I was born, and these walls have seen every drama Juniper Falls has to offer. "Small minds make big gossip."
"I'm fine." But my voice catches, betraying me.
Hale pauses, a can of soup halfway to the bag. "You know what I remember about Graham Hart? Not the leaving. I remember the way he used to come in here every Wednesday after baseball practice, covered in dirt, to buy your grandmother's favorite tea. Even after you two started dating, he kept buying it separate from his other shopping, special-like. Said some things deserved their own trip."
I blink hard, remembering those boxes of Earl Grey appearing mysteriously on Gran's porch.
"That's the thing about roots," Hale continues, bagging my groceries with careful precision. "Sometimes they grow deeper than anyone can see from the surface."
"But what if they're not strong enough?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He looks up, a knowing smile on his face. "The only way to know is to let them grow."
I carry my single bag of groceries out into the night, the door falling shut behind me. Sarah's words echo in my head: a stopgap while he figures out what's next. But under that, I hear Graham's voice from earlier: I never really moved on.
The question is, do I trust my heart to tell the difference between what's real and what I want to be real?
The tomatoes shift in my bag, reminding me of Gran's voice: The best ones are worth waiting for, even if they take a little longer to ripen.
I wish I knew if we were finally ripe, or if this was just another green summer, full of promise but not quite ready for harvest.
Sleep eludes me. I head to the shop early, hoping work will quiet my mind. The sunrise paints the mountains in shades of pink and gold, but instead of appreciating the beauty, I find myself remembering other sunrises. Graham and I sneaking out to watch the dawn from Miller's Creek. My seventeen-year-old heart so sure that love could conquer anything.
I throw myself into inventory, counting flower stems with fierce concentration. Twenty-four roses. Thirty-six carnations. Forty-two... I lose count when I spot Graham's notebook on the counter, forgotten after yesterday's garden planning session. His precise drawings of the festival layout are so different from the baseball stats he used to scribble, yet the handwriting is exactly the same.
The shop bell chimes. "We're not open—" I start to say, but it's just Sarah with my morning coffee delivery.
"Thought you might need this." She sets the cup on the counter. "Saw your lights on early."
I manage a smile. "Thanks. I have a lot to catch up on."
She lingers, and I know she's bursting to ask about last night, about Graham, about everything the town's probably discussing over breakfast at the diner right now. But she just pats my hand and leaves, the bell singing her goodbye.
I try to lose myself in mundane tasks. Trimming stems. Refreshing water. Organizing delivery schedules. But everything holds memories. The purple irises remind me of our senior prom corsage. The garden tools bring back summer afternoons helping Gran while Graham worked on his pitching in our backyard. Even the ancient cash register holds echoes of him. He helped me replace its ribbon once, his hands careful with the delicate mechanism.
A burst of laughter draws my attention to the shop window. A teenage couple walks by, hands clasped tight. The boy says something that makes the girl throw her head back, joy written all over her face. They pause under the awning, sharing a quick kiss before continuing on their way to school.
My throat tightens. We were that young once, that certain. Graham used to wait for me right there, leaning against that same post. He'd walk me home from school even though it made him late for baseball practice.
The coffee Sarah brought sits untouched, growing cold. I should be working on the festival planning. There are vendor maps to finalize, and schedule conflicts to resolve. Instead, I find myself touching the petals of a coral bell bloom, remembering Graham's words from last night: I never really moved on.
But isn't that part of the problem? We're not those teenagers anymore. We can't just pick up where we left off, pretending the years between never happened. He had a whole life without me—a wife, a business, and dreams that didn't include Juniper Falls. And I built my own life here, brick by careful brick, learning to stand on my own.
Sarah's words echo in my head: A stopgap while he figures out what's next.
The thing is, I know who I am now. I'm the woman who kept this shop alive after Gran passed. Who transformed the Spring Blossom Festival from a small town fair into a regional attraction. Who survived heartbreak and divorce and came out stronger.
But when Graham looks at me with those warm brown eyes, when he remembers exactly how I take my coffee or tells stories about Gran's garden, I feel myself softening. Wanting to believe in second chances and fairy tales and love that stands the test of time.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Graham about finalizing the garden layout. I stare at it, remembering how his hand felt on mine last night, how natural it would have been to lean into him, to take the risk.
But the teenage couple is long gone, and the morning sun has burned away the dawn's rosy glow. I set my phone aside without responding. Some dreams are better left in the past, where they can't hurt you again.
I pick up my cold coffee and Graham's forgotten notebook, intending to return it to the garden shed where he'll find it later. I open it one last time, running my fingers over his careful drawings. In the margins, almost hidden by plant lists and measurements, I find a tiny sketch of two people on a bench, surrounded by flowers.
A lump rises in my throat. I close the notebook firmly, ignoring the way my hands shake. I have a festival to organize, a business to run, a life to live. I can't afford to get lost in memories or maybes.
But as I set the notebook aside, I catch myself wondering if Sarah's wrong. If sometimes a stopgap can become a destination, if roots really do grow deeper than anyone can see from the surface.
I shake the thought away and reach for my vendor contracts. The festival is in three days. After that, I'll figure out how to be around Graham without feeling like my heart is being torn in two different directions.