Dandelion Dreams (The Alphabet Sweethearts #4)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Emma

T he empty rooms of our rental home echo with Charlie's footsteps, each space a blank canvas waiting to be filled. I run my hand along freshly painted walls, breathe in the lingering scent of pine cleaner and possibility, and try to imagine this becoming home.

"Mama! Mama, come look!" His voice draws me to the back door, where he's practically bouncing with excitement. "The whole yard is full of wishes!"

I follow him onto the small back porch, and my breath catches. The spring grass is dotted with dandelions, their yellow heads turned toward the sun like tiny lions basking in the warmth. Some of them have gone to seed, looking like delicate snowballs sticking up out of the grass on their tall stems. Charlie's already down the steps, carefully approaching the closest cluster.

"Can I make some wishes?" He looks back at me with Andrew's earnest expression in my eyes. "Please?"

"Of course, sweetie." I sit on the bottom step, watching as he selects his first dandelion with the same careful consideration he gives to choosing books. "What are you going to wish for?"

He shakes his head, dark curls falling across his forehead. "Can't tell you, Mama. Then it won't come true."

Something squeezes in my chest. I wonder if he's wishing about his father, about the man he just met yesterday. About the possibility of having both parents in his life, finally.

"The moving truck will be here soon," I remind him gently. "Why don't you make one wish now, and save the rest for later?"

He nods solemnly, holds up his chosen dandelion, and blows. White seeds catch the morning light as they drift away, carrying whatever wish my son has wrapped in their delicate parachutes.

After the moving truck arrives and our few pieces of furniture find their places, I decide a walk might help settle both Charlie's excitement and my nerves. Main Street hasn't changed much in five years. The same historic brick buildings line the sidewalks, their window boxes already showing hints of spring blooms. The hardware store still has the same bell over its door, and the general store still promises the best apples in three counties.

"Emma Hawthorne, is that you?"

I turn to find Hazel Elliott approaching, her silver hair catching the sunlight. She's wearing one of her signature flowing scarves, this one decorated with tiny flowers, and her warm smile hasn't changed a bit.

"Mrs. Elliott!" The familiar sight of my former art teacher brings unexpected tears to my eyes. "It's so good to see you."

"None of that 'Mrs. Elliott' business." She pulls me into a lavender-scented hug. "It's still Hazel, dear. And this must be Charlie."

Charlie peers around my leg, suddenly shy. "Hello," he manages quietly.

"I hear you're quite the artist," Hazel says, kneeling despite her age to meet his eyes. "Just like your mama."

His face brightens. "I drew a dragon yesterday! And the nice lady at the bookstore gave me a special book about them."

"That would be Maggie." Hazel's eyes meet mine knowingly. "Novel Sips has become quite the heart of our community. Andrew's done wonderful things with that place."

My stomach does a familiar flip at his name. "Yes, I... we visited yesterday."

"Mmm." She straightens slowly, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. "He spends most mornings there, you know. Always the first one in, making sure everything's just so." Her voice softens. "That man's built something real there. Something steady."

Unlike me, who ran away to chase dreams that turned out to be as insubstantial as dandelion fluff. I swallow hard. "He seems to be doing well."

"He is." Hazel's eyes are kind but shrewd. "Though some might say he's been a bit too careful since... well. The heart needs room to grow wild sometimes, dear. To take chances."

I follow her gaze to where Charlie is exploring the small park across the street, his natural curiosity showing in every movement. Five years ago, Andrew would have smiled that private smile of his when watching a child lost in imagination like that, even while maintaining the careful order of his surroundings.

I remember how he looked yesterday. He was broader in the shoulders than before, his face more angular, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly crooked from pushing them up absently while he works. The way his hands gripped the edge of his desk, strong and capable. How his eyes still hold that intensity that used to make me feel like I was the only person in the world.

"It's not that simple," I whisper, more to myself than Hazel.

"Oh, honey." She pats my arm gently. "The important things never are. But that doesn't mean they're not worth fighting for." She glances at her watch. "I should get going. I'm meeting the garden club to plan the spring festival. But Emma?" She waits until I meet her eyes. "Welcome home."

As she walks away, Charlie runs back to me, another dandelion clutched carefully in his small hand. "For you, Mama. So you can make a wish too."

I take it, my vision blurring slightly. The dandelion head is perfect, a globe of silver seeds ready to take flight. Like my son, it holds countless possibilities, waiting to see which ones will take root and grow.

I close my eyes and blow softly, not daring to voice my wish even in the privacy of my own thoughts. But as I watch the seeds drift away on the spring breeze, I can't help hoping they carry at least one of them toward the red brick building down the street, where Andrew is probably straightening books and pushing up his glasses, unaware that some wishes refuse to give up, no matter how long they have to wait.

The Copper Kettle hasn't changed since high school. Same mismatched mugs, same worn leather chairs, same copper fixtures gleaming warmly against exposed brick walls. I arrive early, choosing a quiet corner table where Andrew and I used to study during finals week.

My hands shake slightly as I arrange the manila envelope I brought. Inside are Charlie's birth certificate, his preschool art projects, photos marking every milestone I documented alone. Most items are copies but the art pieces are originals. All are things a father should have known about.

The bell above the door chimes, and my heart stutters. Andrew walks in, scanning the café until he finds me. He's changed from his work clothes into a soft gray sweater that makes his hazel eyes look warmer, more like they used to be.

"Hi," I manage as he slides into the chair across from me. "Thank you for coming."

He nods, wrapping his long fingers around the coffee mug Sarah brings without being asked. She obviously remembers his order. "Where's Charlie?"

"Miss Hazel's watching him, actually." I curl my hands around my own mug. "I ran into her earlier and asked if she would stay with him for a bit after you called."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "You're comfortable leaving him with someone you just reconnected with?"

"It's Miss Hazel," I say simply. "She hasn't changed a bit—still the same wise, caring person who used to let me hide out in the art room when things got hard at home. And Charlie..." I smile despite myself. "He took to her immediately. They're working on a special art project together."

Andrew nods slowly, though I can see the protective concern in his eyes. "You said you had some things to show me?"

"Yes." I pull out the photos first, laying them carefully on the table between us. "His first steps. First birthday. First day of preschool." My voice catches. "I know it's not the same as being there, but I thought you should have them."

Andrew's hands hover over the images, not quite touching. His jaw tightens as he looks at each one, drinking in the moments he missed. When he reaches a photo of Charlie sleeping with a book clutched to his chest, his breath catches audibly.

"He falls asleep reading almost every night," I say softly. "Just like you used to."

"Emma—" He breaks off, adjusting his glasses in that familiar nervous gesture.

"I'm not trying to make this harder." I reach for my coffee, needing something to do with my hands. "I just... you deserve to know him. To know who he is."

"Who he is." Andrew's voice is rough. "He's my son. My son who's been alive for four years without me knowing he existed."

"I tried to find you." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "When I realized I was pregnant." I break off as a drop of coffee splashes onto the table.

Andrew reaches for a napkin the same moment I do. His fingers brush mine, and that simple touch sends electricity racing up my arm. His hand freezes against mine for a heartbeat too long before we both pull back.

"Sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for—the spilled coffee or everything else.

He stares at his coffee mug for a long moment before looking up. "You still drink coffee the same way? Splash of cream, too much sugar?"

The question catches me off guard. "Yes, actually."

He signals Sarah, who appears with her order pad. "Two orders of apple crumble?" He glances at me. "Unless your taste in desserts has changed?"

I shake my head, warmth spreading through my chest at this small remembered detail. "No, that's still my favorite."

As Sarah heads to the kitchen, I pull out more photos. "This is his first day of preschool." I slide the picture across the table. "He insisted on wearing his dragon shirt and carrying every book he owns."

Andrew's lips twitch. "Every book?"

"We negotiated down to three." I find myself smiling at the memory. "He's very persuasive when he wants to be."

"Must get that from you." There's a hint of the old teasing in his voice.

"Oh no, that's all you. Remember how you convinced Mr. Peterson to let you reorganize the entire library in high school?"

"It needed to be done." But he's almost smiling now, his fingers relaxed around his mug. "The Dewey Decimal System exists for a reason."

Sarah returns with two generous pieces of crumble, the same kind we used to share during late-night study sessions. The familiar taste brings back a flood of memories—finals week caffeine binges, shared dreams about opening a bookstore, plans we thought would last forever.

Andrew asks questions as we work our way through the photos and pie. What's Charlie's favorite book? Does he sleep with a nightlight? Has he started kindergarten yet? Each answer seems to both pain and fascinate him, like he's trying to piece together a puzzle of his son's life.

"Novel Sips looks like it has done well," I say during a lull, genuinely curious. "You've made it exactly what you used to talk about."

"Not exactly." He pushes up his glasses. "But close. The community's been supportive." He tells me about the reading programs he's started, the local authors' showcase, the children's story time that Maggie runs every Saturday morning.

The sun has shifted considerably when I realize how long we've been talking. "I should get back to Charlie," I say reluctantly, gathering the photos.

Andrew clears his throat. "I'd like to spend some time with Charlie, if that’s okay.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Could you bring him by the shop tomorrow? Maybe around ten? The morning rush will be over, and..." He trails off, uncertain.

"He'd love that." I stand, clutching my purse. "He hasn't stopped talking about the dragon books Maggie showed him."

"Emma?" Andrew's voice stops me before I reach the door. "Thank you. For the pictures. For telling me about him."