17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Lizzie
I sat in bed that night, having nearly given up on writing as the blank Google document glared back at me from my laptop. My brain was refusing to cooperate—per usual, it was focused on James.
This time, however, it wasn’t about his dreamy eyes or how I loved the way he smelled whenever we were sitting close to one another. It was because I’d managed to somehow shove my foot in my mouth during our last conversation.
It had been another great talk, like the many we’d shared over the past month. I loved how easily he could make me laugh, how thoughtful he was—even up for trying something outside his wheelhouse, like reading a book I’d recommended. I don’t think any guy I’d known before would’ve been willing, not even my own brother. Definitely not Randall.
And I already had the perfect book laid out, ready to hand over to the next day. It was ridiculous, really, how excited I was to present it to him. Even though this meant I’d now be forced to try kayaking in exchange. Because yeah, there was a reason I didn’t participate in most physical activities. I was pretty much the most uncoordinated person on the planet.
The thing that had struck me most today, though, was how encouraging James had been while we talked about my writing. Even if the idea of abandoning my book to switch genres still terrified me, he actually made me believe I could do it.
It made me wish for a brief moment that Randall had believed in me that way, too. That I’d felt more at ease with myself around him, the way I did with James. Would we have made it? I doubted it. I could see now that our problems had been deeply rooted in incompatibility.
It was crazy, though, how three years with my ex couldn’t measure up to a handful of weeks with a man like James.
There had been a definite shift, though, when James and I had started discussing his work again—his reaction making me wonder if I’d said something wrong. I mean, it’s not like we hadn’t talked about this very topic plenty of times before—but this time, it just felt different. It was clear he’d been upset, and the idea of it was making me crazy. I needed to make things right.
Because James was a good man. Anyone could see that he cared about the people in his life, based on everything I’d seen in his interactions with Jesse and his grandmother, Georgia (who now insisted I call her GiGi—since most everyone else did) . So the absolute last thing I wanted was to mess up what we had going.
Because as the weeks raced by, I was finding myself really, really liking him. It wasn’t only about being attracted to him, like I was at the start. Those feelings had already tiptoed beyond friendship.
Which made having him contractually obligated to be near me, day in and day out, tricky. Not just because of the professional side of things, but also—hadn’t I promised myself I wouldn’t get distracted?
Even though writing this book on the shores of Lake Elska had proven every bit as difficult as writing in Minneapolis, I had to keep trying. It was the whole point of me moving up here, to prove that I could do this. I owed that to myself. Otherwise, what was the point of uprooting my life and starting over, if I was just going to create the same mess I’d left behind?
And logically, I knew I was getting way ahead of myself anyway, throwing around assumptions that had no basis in reality. James was kind, friendly and attentive towards me because I was his client, that’s all. The fact that we got along so well—and had become friends in a matter of weeks—was a bonus. It didn’t need to be more than that. It shouldn’t be more than that.
But even now, despite everything, a teeny-tiny part of me still held out hope that moving to Dearing Creek would bring about more than one positive change in my life. Like Grandma Cora had always said, this place had its own kind of magic.
And I really needed to believe in something right now.
A loud squawking sounded outside my window, making me jump about a foot off the bed. Realizing it was nothing but a stupid bird, I snorted out a laugh, shaking my head at how jumpy I’d been lately.
Damn you, Renaldo.
I was still getting used to being here at the cabin on my own. Lately, I’d been debating getting a dog so I would feel a little less alone—especially at night and now that my cabin included a mouse squatter. It had been almost eight years since our beloved family mutt, Missy, had crossed the rainbow bridge—maybe it was time to spring for a pup of my own.
Glancing over at my mint green alarm clock in its new home on my grandmother’s old oak nightstand, I realized it was already after eleven. Maybe I’d relax and do a little reading, and make a fresh attempt at writing in the morning.
Hoisting myself out of bed, I shuffled over to the corner where I’d stacked the boxes containing most of my grandmother’s book collection.
This room had been my grandparents’ back in the day. The cabin itself had three bedrooms, but this one was larger than the others, so it always served as the master. Growing up, Mariah and I had usually bunked together in one of the smaller rooms, with Ethan in the other—or on the sofa, if my grandparents joined our family, too.
But everyone who had once laid claim to this room was now gone—the first time this room had ever been mine. It felt odd, almost as though I was intruding where I didn’t belong. I half expected my mother to walk in at any moment and shoo me out the door, hollering, “Just give me some damn space.”
And as much as I’d hated all the yelling, a small part of me would’ve given anything to bring it all back.
Sometimes, when it was just us kids with our grandparents at the cabin, I’d crawl into bed with Grandma Cora early in the morning, after Grandpa Walter had gone off fishing. We’d lay there together while Mariah and Ethan slept, flipping through our latest books and giggling at the racy bits.
Now this room lay silent— too silent.
But even though the woman was gone, Grandma Cora’s touches were alive everywhere—the white, gauzy curtains with hand-stitched lace along the edges; the pale blue quilt, pieced together in a pattern that mimicked the ripples of the lake; the original white porcelain and brass lamp on the dresser. Even the dresser itself had been hers, a wedding gift from her mother—all warm wood and subtle curves, with a matching oval mirror hanging on the wall above.
The only thing different now was the section of wall missing on the far left corner, which now led to the new addition. When James and I had first discussed the idea of adding the bathroom, I’d been hesitant—it meant changing something about this room that held so many memories for me.
Would my grandmother approve?
Of course, it didn’t matter—not everything could be about the past. I also had to think about my future. And if I wanted this cabin to be both my full-time home and a place to share on the weekends with my brother and friends—a second bathroom was needed.
The harder part, though, was feeling my grandmother’s presence diminishing over the past few weeks. But here in this room, she felt closer—maybe, if I really focused, I would hear her voice whispering in my ear.
“Lizzie, girl… what should we read next?”
Lowering myself to the floor, I reached for a box I hadn’t yet opened, ripping off the strip of packing tape. One by one, I pulled out her books, a handful of which I didn’t recognize. Must have been some she had picked up towards the end. At first, the thought of it made me sad—these were books that weren’t a part of our story together.
Then again, maybe reading one would complete the circle, bringing her closer?
I reached inside the box again, pulling out a clothbound book with gold leaf pages, wedged halfway down. Despite the thickness of the book, however, it felt… lighter than I’d expected. The title on the cover read, “Love & Other Tales”. As I began flipping the book over to inspect the back cover, I heard an odd sort of clunking sound coming from inside.
What the hell was that?
I tilted the book upright again, gingerly opening the front cover. And that’s when I discovered it.
This particular book wasn’t a book at all. It was one of those fakey-books used to hide precious items on bookshelves from would-be thieves. And this one held a dark green velvet pouch, nestled with a tiny, folded piece of paper. Fumbling as I worked to unfold it, I recognized my grandmother’s handwriting, her cursive scrawl spelling out a handful of words on the page. Without meaning to, I murmured the words aloud: The key to my heart.
Key to my heart?
Suddenly, I felt wide awake.
Loosening the ribbon closure, I reached inside, my fingers closing around what felt like… a brooch, maybe? But what I found instead was a small, ornate golden key, hanging from a gold chain—almost like… a necklace?
I lifted it by the chain so that the key dangled before me, watching as it twirled and sparkled in the dim lamplight. Odds are, this was some random piece of jewelry that Grandma Cora had picked up from a flea market over the years. Maybe even a gift from Grandpa?
Though, if that were the case… why would it be hidden away in this book, like some secret?
But right then, it didn’t matter. Discovering this small, hidden relic that had once belonged to her felt almost like a sign that she was still with me, still cheering me on.
And it was exactly what I needed.
With a burst of determination, I decided to forgo reading and head straight to bed. If I was ever going to make a dent in my word count, I needed sleep and focus.
It was the whole reason I’d moved here, why I’d left my entire life behind in Minneapolis. Not to wallow in self-doubt, or give up when things felt hard, or fall into temptation. This was meant to be my fresh start. And I wasn’t going to achieve that by allowing myself to get distracted by someone else who didn’t want me all over again.
Besides, I had a feeling the fall would hurt far more with a man like the one who’d recently taken up residence in my mind and heart.