Chapter 30
Daisy
Grief is the price we pay for love.
~ Queen Elizabeth II
Noelle and Liam stand at the counter. Our last customers—not only for the night, but forever.
Noelle squeezes my forearm. “Thank you, Daisy. We’re going to miss this place so much. I don’t even have words.”
“Thank you,” I say, choking back the next wave of tears.
“I wish we could do more,” Liam says.
“I know. Me too. We had a good run.” I stare around at the shelves, still full of books for now.
They smile at me and walk out, holding hands.
I walk to the front window and turn the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
We’re officially closed. I’ll do a yard sale in the spring to offload as much of my remaining inventory as possible—before Home Mart opens, or maybe after.
Some defiant part of me likes the idea of doing it the day they cut their ribbon.
Silence hums through the shop, as if time itself is caught in a tug-of-war between years of memories and what comes next.
My friends start to show up. Winona is already here. Cass, Carli, Emberleigh and Sydney all arrive over the next few minutes.
“Why did I think having a farewell book club meeting would be a good idea?” I lament to Sydney and Emberleigh while they lay out the treats they brought on top of one of the lower bookcases in the back room. “I haven’t stopped crying all day. I’m a mess.”
“It’s not a farewell book club meeting,” Winona corrects me. “We’re just moving locations.”
I nod. I wish I could mainline her optimism and resilience.
“What are you going to do?” Cass asks me. “Win told me she’s going to work at the tea shop.”
Winona interrupts us. “I’ll give new meaning to bull in a china shop!”
I laugh despite the melancholy clinging to me like a film.
“I’m going to work at the library,” I tell Cass.
“Oh! That’s perfect.” She smiles. “Not perfect, obviously. Perfect would be a sinkhole appearing on the lot next door, sucking Home Mart into the depths of Hades from whence it came.” She wags her eyebrows.
I smile faintly. My eyes burn and my head throbs with that dull ache that comes after too many tears.
“What I mean is, you’ll be an amazing librarian and they’ll be lucky to have you. And you can still work with books and help people fall in love with reading.”
“I knew what you meant,” I assure Cass. “And I’m happy about the opportunity. I won’t officially be a librarian—no degree in library sciences.”
“Do any of our librarians have one?” Cass asks.
“Probably not. Around here, experience counts more than diplomas. They’ve been doing this so long they’d run circles around the big-city librarians.”
“In the librarian Olympics?”
I let out a stilted laugh—the kind that momentarily punctures sadness. The tightness in my chest eases for just a second.
This has been one of the hardest days of my life. I never dreamed I’d be closing shop. I always assumed Moss and Maple would live on beyond me. Maybe I was naive.
I glance at the sign over the window that looks out over the back lawn: EVERYTHING 50% OFF.
Did I jump the gun? I wish I had more time.
But I’d always feel this way. Business was slumping.
I could have made ends meet, kept the shop open.
Knowing we’re closing in less than a year meant sitting with my dad and going over my options.
Closing now is the best financial decision. I won’t go into the red this way.
“We took a vote,” Cass says once we’re all seated with dessert plates full of goodies and Harney’s tea or cocoa in our mugs.
Emberleigh’s hand lands on my thigh.
“You guys …” I say.
“We had customers and people around town write notes,” Cass explains.
“It’s a what Moss and Maple means to me tribute!” Winona exclaims.
I don’t know if I can actually survive this. “If I have to say goodbye to this shop, I’m so glad all of you are here with me to do it.”
The next few hours are spent with each of us grabbing index cards and stationery out of the pile in the basket Emberleigh brought.
I burst into tears when Carli reads a note from five-year-old Benny: I learned to read at Moss and Maple. He drew stick figures on the card along with his hand-scrawled testimony.
“It looks like one is holding a book,” Cass says.
“Or a very square ham,” Winona says, squinting at the card.
We all laugh and I want to freeze this moment in time and stay here, curled up in a cozy chair, surrounded by my friends, sipping a warm drink and soaking in the appreciation of the community I’ve devoted my life to serving.
We make our way through the pile of notes. Hours later, we’ve all laughed and cried. A silence settles over the room. I glance around at each of my friends, then at the bookcases and the inky blackness outside the windows.
“I’ve got one more thing,” Winona says, her voice softer than usual.
“No more!” I say, half joking. “I don’t think I have any tears left.”
“I found this tucked in a book in the storage room earlier this week.”
She hands me a note. I open it and recognize the handwriting right away.
Gran.
My breath hitches mid-inhale. I release it on a shaky exhale. I rub at the faint ache in my chest. All this time, Gran’s words were here with me in the shop—hidden in a book.
I take another breath and start to read the note out loud.
“Dear reader,” I laugh softly. She didn’t even know it would be me.
“You found this note, and I don’t know if I’m still here or not. I just thought it would be fun to tuck a few surprises in these shelves for whoever stumbled on them. Maybe you’re facing down a mountain right now. Or maybe life’s smooth sailing. If so, tuck this away for a rainy day.”
I look around at my friends, their eyes are wide. Not one of us speaks.
“I’ve had my share of highs and lows—same as anyone.
We don’t make it through life without our share of speed bumps.
Don’t let the hard days define you; let them teach you.
Life will toss you a curveball or two, but you’ll be okay.
The toughest seasons usually bring gifts we never saw coming.
If I’m still around when you find this, come by for a hug or a cup of tea. ”
My eyes overflow with tears. I hand the letter to Emberleigh. She nods and picks up reading where I left off. Cass stands, grabbing a stack of the paper napkins from the dessert area and handing them to me. I grasp them and blot my cheeks.
“And if I’m not, find someone. Don’t go through the hard stuff alone. Keep your chin up, sweetheart. Everything passes—eventually.
With all my heart, Joyce.”
There’s not a dry eye in the room.
The air feels different—lighter and heavier all at once.
The scent of cinnamon, cocoa and old books lingers.
The faint creak of the rafters above us feels like the shop itself letting out a long breath.
My heart thuds with a longing for one more hug from Gran, and a quiet sense that this letter was just that.
Winona’s the first to speak. “Of all the things …”
I manage a small nod, still absorbing the echo of Gran’s words.
Cass says, “Daisy, this property has meant so much to all of us—to you most of all. But the heart of Moss and Maple isn’t here in this building. Your gran was the heart—and you’ve been the heart. And you’ll take that wherever you go. It won’t be the same, but it will be a new kind of sweetness.”
A small, shaky smile works its way up before I can stop it. My throat tightens again—but this time it isn’t from crying. It’s from letting myself hope for a moment that Cass might be right.
“It’s going to take me a minute to believe that,” I admit.
“Of course it will,” Emberleigh says. “And there’s no rush.”
Eventually, as much as we don’t want to, we stand and clean up our dessert plates. We exchange the kind of hugs reserved for funerals and farewells.
Everyone leaves except Winona, who insists on lagging behind with me.
“I’m going to miss this place,” she says, looking around.
My gaze follows hers and I sigh. “Thank you for everything.”
“It’s been my pleasure. And I’m with Cass. The heart of Moss and Maple will live on.”
I take down the event flyer announcing our last author book signing. Then I grab the list I made of gift card credits I’ll honor.
Winona and I walk to the door together.
“Thanks for staying on the Titanic until the violin played,” I say.
“I’d save a spot on my driftwood for you,” she says with a tender smile. “I won’t watch you drown.”
The door snicks shut behind her, and I stand in the entry taking one last look around, listening to the stillness.
Endings rarely come the way we expect them to.
I keep waiting for a sign, for closure—something monumental and significant.
Instead, walking out feels the same as every other night. The same, but totally different.
Maybe this is what letting go sounds like—hollow, but not empty.
I drive home with the basket of notes on the passenger seat and Gran’s letter tucked safely in my purse. I call Mom and Dad and tell them about it, promising them I’ll make a copy for them to keep.
When I step onto my porch, there’s a card sticking out from the screen door. I tug it out.
The front of the envelope simply says, “Daisy.”
I step inside my home and tear it open.
The card, with a design of simple geometric shapes on the front, trembles in my hands, whether from exhaustion or something I don’t want to name.
The inside has no inscription, only handwriting:
Thank you for the biography. I still think a gift like this means you like me.
- Patrick.
I chuckle softly, even though he’s still Patrick and I definitely don’t like him—well, not much. I’ve given his confession a lot of thought and I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit to softening a little toward him after he explained what happened that day so many years ago.
I’d fully forgive him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still his dad’s right hand man, sitting next to him, nodding his head along with every decision.
I think real apologies show up in what we do next, not what we say.
If Patrick were really sorry, and he didn’t want to see Moss and Maple close, he would have spoken up.
Instead, he walked around like a shadow of Conrad O’Connell, doing as he was told and reciting the party line.
I’m so tired after all the emotions of the day, I think I could sleep for a week straight.
I get ready for bed, and am about to turn off the light when an urge overtakes me to check my email.
I haven’t heard from BTTP since the goodbye email I sent him.
If he hadn’t stood me up, I’d be telling him all about today—how it felt to close the shop that meant everything to me, the time I spent with my friends giving a sweet homage to Moss and Maple.
I pad downstairs and grab my laptop, carrying it up to my bed. When I’m tucked back under the covers with my back to the headboard, I open my email.
Scanning my inbox, I see it. A response from the host of Burning Through the Pages. I should be mad at him. And I am. But I also miss him. And tonight, I want to hear his words, even if I’ll never meet him in real life.
Dear M&M,
I haven’t responded to your email because I couldn’t think of what to say.
I know I disappointed you and let you down. I wish I could explain why I didn’t show up at the corn maze. I can’t tell you everything yet, but I had a reason. I promise I will, as soon as the time is right.
You didn’t deserve the way I left things, you deserve so much more.
I know words won’t fix what I broke. I just want the chance to show you how sorry I am.
I wouldn’t blame you for blocking me now and leaving me like I left you—stranded and hopeful until hope turned into confusion and confusion morphed to hurt. Knowing I did that to you is breaking me.
I’m still going to write to you, unless you tell me to stop.
If you let me, I’ll prove I’m capable of showing up. And maybe, in time, we’ll actually meet in person—if you still want that one day.
Please don’t hate me. Trust me for one more chapter of the story.
- BTTP
I shut my laptop. The glow fades from the screen, leaving me alone with one thought: Am I foolish for wanting to give him another chance?