6. Chapter 6 Eli
I’ve spent the last three days pretending that the voicemail Stacey left doesn't exist.
That turns out to be easier than it should be.
By Friday night, I've convinced myself I don't care what she has to say. If it were important, she would have called again. If it involved Sophie, she would have left actual details instead of another vague message dropped into my inbox like a paper airplane.
At three-thirty in the morning, however, sleep refuses to cooperate.
The Prairie Rose Inn is quiet in a way that only old buildings can be. The walls creak occasionally as the structure settles, and somewhere downstairs a grandfather clock marks the passing minutes. Moonlight spills across the sitting room floor, turning the worn hardwood silver.
Across the hall, Sophie is asleep.
I can hear the faint hum of the fan in her room and the occasional rustle of blankets when she shifts in her sleep. Knowing she's there should help me relax.
Instead, I find myself sitting alone on the couch with my phone in my hand.
The voicemail waits on the screen.
One message.
Three days old.
I stare at it for a long moment before pressing play.
"Hey, Eli. It's me."
Stacey's voice fills the room.
The sound of it catches me off guard. Not because I miss it, but because it feels so familiar. For years it was the voice that greeted me at the end of the day, the voice that filled our kitchen, our living room, our life.
Now it sounds like someone calling from another planet.
"I was thinking about you guys the other day."
You guys.
Not Sophie.
Not our daughter.
Just you guys.
I lean back against the couch cushions and listen.
The message wanders through updates about work and travel. Phoenix. Atlanta. Deadlines. Meetings. Everything arrives in the same bright, breezy tone she always uses when discussing things that matter to her.
Then she gets to the reason for the call.
"Anyway, I was thinking maybe I could come visit sometime."
I close my eyes.
Maybe.
Sometime.
No date. No plan. No commitment.
Just another possibility floating through the air.
As if visiting her daughter is comparable to trying a new restaurant.
The message continues.
"I know Sophie's probably getting big. Tell her I said hi."
A muscle tightens in my jaw.
Tell her I said hi.
The words aren't cruel. That's the problem.
If Stacey were cruel, it would be easier to explain.
Instead, she sounds sincere. She sounds like someone who honestly believes she's making an effort. She sounds like someone who doesn't understand that an eight-year-old can't build a relationship out of occasional greetings and vague promises.
The voicemail ends with a promise to call again soon.
She doesn't.
I set the phone on the coffee table and stare into the darkness.
For a long time, I listen to the quiet sounds of the inn and try not to think about the last three years.
I fail.
I remember Sophie standing in our kitchen asking when her mother was coming home.
I remember the birthday card she insisted on mailing even after months of silence.
I remember every hopeful question and every careful disappointment that followed.
Eventually, the questions became less frequent.
That should have been a relief.
Instead, it felt like watching a door slowly close.
Sophie shifts in her sleep. The sound pulls my thoughts back to the present.
Tomorrow morning she'll probably ask if we can stop by the library. She'll tell me about a book Maggie recommended or a new reading strategy she's trying. Over the last week, those conversations have become part of our routine without me fully noticing when it happened.
Maggie has a way of doing that. She slips into empty spaces and fills them with things that seem small until you realize they matter.
An origami frog.
A handwritten book recommendation.
A conversation that leaves Sophie smiling the rest of the day.
I should find that comforting.
Instead, I find it unsettling.
Because temporary people always seem permanent right before they leave.
The thought settles heavily in my chest.
I reach for the phone again and look at Stacey's voicemail one last time.
Then I set it face down on the table.
The room falls silent once more.
Outside, wind brushes through the cottonwoods. Inside, the old inn creaks softly around me.
For the first time in years, I realize I don't just distrust promises.
I distrust hope.
Saturday morning arrives bright and cool, with sunlight pouring through the tall windows of the Prairie Rose Inn and the smell of cinnamon rolls drifting up from downstairs.
Luke nods from atop the ladder in the lobby where he’s prepping the ceiling for new sheetrock. Sophie and I find the dining room already occupied.
Wren sits at one end of the large farmhouse table with a stack of papers spread in front of her. Maggie occupies the seat beside her, wearing bright yellow glasses today and studying a spreadsheet with the concentration of someone trying to solve a murder.
Given that Mystery & Mug Cake Night was last night, maybe she still is.
Neither woman notices us immediately.
"Okay, but explain this part again," Maggie says, tapping a page. "Because it feels like the library is being punished for existing."
Wren grimaces.
"Welcome to municipal budgeting."
"That doesn't feel welcoming."
"It never is."
I guide Sophie toward the buffet and pour her a glass of orange juice while trying not to eavesdrop.
Unfortunately, both women are terrible at keeping their voices down.
"The mayor isn't against the library," Wren says. "The town budget is just stretched thin this year. Roads need work. The community center roof is leaking again."
"The library roof leaks too."
"Exactly."
Maggie drops her head into her hands.
I shouldn't find that amusing.
I definitely shouldn't notice that the yellow glasses make her look like sunshine in human form.
Across the room, Sophie has stopped pouring juice and is listening openly now.
That never ends well.
"How bad is it?" Maggie asks.
Wren's expression softens.
"I don't know yet. But Dana wouldn't have warned you if things looked good."
Maggie stares at the paperwork in front of her. Not defeated. Thinking.
That's the thing about I’ve noticed about Maggie. Whenever she encounters a problem, she immediately starts looking for solutions. It's written all over her face.
I recognize the expression because Sophie wears the same one.
Sure enough, my daughter sets down the juice pitcher and marches directly toward the table.
Oh no.
I know that walk.
That is not a child approaching a conversation.
That is a child approaching a mission.
"Maggie," Sophie announces, climbing into the chair beside her, "we need a library-saving plan."
Maggie's eyes widen.
"A library-saving plan?"
"Obviously."
Wren immediately looks interested. Which is also a problem.
Sophie nods firmly. "We can make posters."
"Good start."
"We can tell people to come."
"Also good."
"We can maybe get Elvis to wear a sign."
Wren snorts.
Maggie presses her lips together, fighting a smile.
"That one feels ambitious."
"I believe in him."
"That's your first mistake," Wren says.
The conversation should be harmless. It should make me smile. Instead, something tightens in my chest. Because I've heard this kind of optimism before.
Not from Sophie.
From adults. From people convinced that enough effort can solve anything.
Life has taught me otherwise.
Sometimes things fail.
Sometimes people leave.
Sometimes you work as hard as you can and still lose anyway.
Sophie turns toward me with excitement shining all over her face.
"Dad, can I help?"
The room seems to pause.
Maggie looks at me.
Wren looks at me.
Even Sophie waits.
I set my glass down carefully.
"No."
The word comes out sharper than I intend.
Sophie's smile falters immediately.
"Why not?"
Because hope has consequences.
Because disappointment hurts.
Because watching your kid believe in something only to see it taken away is worse than never letting them believe in the first place.
But none of those answers sound reasonable out loud.
"It's not your responsibility," I say instead.
Her shoulders droop slightly.
"I could still help."
"Sophie."
The warning lands gently this time, but she hears it.
Across the table, Maggie doesn't say a word. She simply watches me.
Not angry. Not judgmental. Thoughtful. Which somehow feels worse. Because part of me suspects she understands exactly what I'm not saying.
And part of me is afraid she might be right.
For a second, disappointment flickers across Sophie's face.
It's brief.
Just a slight droop of her shoulders and a tiny tightening around her eyes.
But I see it.
Unfortunately, so does Maggie.
I brace myself for an argument.
Not because Maggie seems argumentative. Quite the opposite. She's almost annoyingly reasonable.
Still, I've known enough people to know what usually comes next.
A suggestion.
A compromise.
A gentle attempt to overrule the mean parent.
Instead, Maggie surprises me.
"I think your dad's right."
Sophie's head snaps around.
"So does that mean my ideas are bad?"
"Not at all."
Maggie reaches over and taps one of the papers spread across the table.
"Actually, I think your ideas are pretty great. Especially the part involving Elvis."
"See?" Sophie says immediately.
"I said the idea was good. I didn't say the rooster would cooperate."
A smile tugs at the corner of Sophie's mouth despite herself.
Maggie leans back in her chair and folds her hands around her glass of orange juice.
"The thing is, saving the library isn't a kid's job."
Sophie's expression falls again.
"But..." she begins.
Maggie shakes her head gently.
"Hear me out."
Something in her tone must work because Sophie actually does.
"Your job is being eight years old."
The room grows quiet.
"That's not a very important job."
"It is incredibly important."
Sophie frowns.
Maggie continues before she can argue.
"Your job is going to school, learning things, playing soccer, reading books, making friends, and figuring out whether frogs really are as suspicious as they seem."
"They are," Sophie says automatically.
"See? Important research."
A reluctant smile appears.
Maggie smiles back.
"The adults can worry about budgets and meetings and library politics. That's our responsibility."
Sophie studies her for a moment.
Then she asks quietly, "But can I still care about it?"
The question catches me off guard.
Maggie doesn't answer immediately.
She thinks about it first.
One of the things I'm starting to notice about her is that she doesn't rush important answers.
"Absolutely," she says finally. "Caring about something and being responsible for something aren't the same thing."
Sophie considers that.
Then nods slowly.
I find myself doing the same.
Because the answer is surprisingly good.
Better than the one I probably would have given.
Across the table, Wren looks like she's trying not to smile.
I ignore her.
Sophie brightens a little.
"So I can still come to library events?"
"Please do."
"And read books?"
"I strongly encourage it."
"And tell people they should visit the library?"
Maggie pretends to think.
"I believe that falls under the category of enthusiastic community participation."
"Good."
Satisfied, Sophie returns to her cinnamon roll.
The crisis appears officially over.
At least for everyone except me.
Because as the conversation shifts toward soccer practice and mystery novels, I catch Maggie's eye for a brief moment across the table.
She doesn't look smug.
She doesn't look triumphant.
She simply offers a small smile before returning to the budget papers.
As though supporting my decision was the most natural thing in the world.
And for some reason, that unsettles me far more than disagreement would have.
A few minutes later, Maggie gathers the budget papers into a neat stack and pushes back from the table.
"Well," Wren says, looking at Maggie, "if we're going to save the library, we should probably start by understanding how city government plans to accidentally destroy it."
"That feels dramatic."
"You haven't been to enough budget meetings."
"Fair."
Maggie laughs and carries her empty glass to the kitchen counter. The yellow glasses catch the morning sunlight as she moves through the room, and for a moment the entire inn seems brighter because she's in it.
That is a ridiculous thought.
I immediately ignore it.
Wren grabs a notebook and heads toward the door.
"Come on. Let's go make a plan."
Maggie pauses long enough to smile at Sophie.
"Thanks for the ideas."
"Even the rooster one?"
"Especially the rooster one."
Sophie beams.
Then Maggie glances toward me.
"See you later, Eli."
The simple goodbye shouldn't do anything to me.
Instead, I find myself watching her cross the lobby and disappear through the front door with Wren.
A moment later, they're gone. The inn grows noticeably quieter. Not silent. Just different.
I pick up my glass and carry it to the sink while Sophie finishes the last bite of her cinnamon roll.
For several minutes, neither of us says anything.
The conversation shifts naturally to weekend plans, soccer practice, and again whether Earl should be trusted with power tools. Sophie holds strong opinions on that subject.
The answer remains no.
Eventually she slides off her chair and wanders toward the front windows.
I expect her to start looking for Elvis. Instead, she comes back and stands beside me.
Then she slips her small hand into mine.
The gesture is so familiar that I almost miss the seriousness behind it.
Almost.
I glance down.
"What is it?"
Sophie stares out the window for a second before answering.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet enough that it barely carries beyond the table.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
She squeezes my hand.
Then she looks up at me with those earnest brown eyes that somehow see far more than an eight-year-old should.
"Can Maggie be on our team?"
For a moment, I don't know what to say.
Because the problem isn't that Sophie wants Maggie on our team.
The problem is that part of me does too.