Chapter 39
Penelope
Clusters of delicate Mayflowers, their petals traced in platinum, shimmer beneath the workbench light. Tiny diamonds scattered like morning dew, seed pearls nestled at their centers, add softness to the intricate design.
It’s perfect—the final touch, the heartbeat of Mia’s dress, drawing the eye with just the right amount of bling.
“Arnold.” I shake my head in admiration. “Just… wow .”
He grins, polishing the brooch with a soft cloth.
Funny. When I first saw his work at the gallery Misha and I visited downtown, I imagined someone younger—an artist with an edgy, modern touch. But standing in his expansive studio just outside Newcombe, I see the full depth of his craft. Rows of antique molds, trays of gemstones, and tools that have shaped heirlooms passed down through generations.
“This place used to be a real production house,” he says, catching my gaze as I take it all in. “My family made period jewelry for decades. Unfortunately, my son and daughter have no interest in carrying it on.”
I glance around at the empty workstations, which could host a dozen jewelers. There’s history here. Craftsmanship. Potential. If only there were more hands to bring it back to life.
We chat for a while, and I find myself reluctant to leave the quiet sanctuary of his studio, nestled on the edge of a forest between two historic townships.
I guess it’s all my focus on sustainability that gives me pause. I hate the idea of anything going to waste. Resources that could be regenerated, upscaled, remodeled into something new.
It tears my heart to see a workspace like this just end. I detest the whole capitalist mindset that sends small specialist producers broke while making multinational production houses rich through churning out generic products.
As I approach the door, another display catches my eye.
“Arnold?” I beckon him. “These are…so unusual.”
The crafted metal rings catch the light in a way that makes the metal come alive—like curves and ripples on a lake. Like an intricate story embedded in platinum.
“The etchings represent the local topography,” Arnold explains as he lifts one of the pair to show me. “The peaks and valleys of the Blue Mountain range. The wavy lines show the varied lake depths.”
I continue to admire it, and he hands it to me.
“All hand-engraved,” he says with a note of pride. “No machines, no shortcuts. Just me, a magnifier, and a few too many cups of coffee.”
I nod thoughtfully, tracing my thumb over one of the deeper grooves. “Right, it’s giving off real survived-the-elements vibes . ”
“Exactly,” Arnold says, tapping the counter. “Kinda like relationships if you ask me. You get the smooth stretches, then you hit the rocky trails. But if you stick it out, you end up with something strong. Enduring. Not easily broken.”
“That’s the sort of cynicism I can relate to.” I grin. “A ring that says: ‘Love’s a scenic but occasionally treacherous hike.’”
Arnold nods appreciatively. “That’s it in a nutshell.”
I set it down carefully, stepping away before the metaphor sinks in any further.
But, of course, it’s too late. My mind is already tangled up in thoughts of Tuck and me—our wonky, uneven journey, full of potholes, wrong turns, and stubborn detours. And yet, somehow, we keep going. No clear destination, no perfect map. Just the undeniable pull that keeps leading us back to each other.
Except this time, it’s like we’ve reached our greatest barrier—a sheer rockface with no way through, over, or around it. No sign, no path. Is this where we’re forced to go our separate ways once and for all?
Then, midway through my drive home, my mind stills.
I pull to the shoulder of the road and sit silently, gathering myself. Taking in the eeriness.
The place where my mother died.
The roadside is quiet as I step out, the hush of the forest settling around me. My shoes sink into the soft leaf litter underfoot, the cool air brushing against my skin.
I take my time, carefully removing the faded bouquets left at the base of the tree, their colors long since drained. I peel away the ones stuck to the trunk, my fingers brushing against its bark—scarred from the impact that took her.
And somehow, I want her to know…that her memory will persist.
That she will live on in me. And if I’m especially blessed, my children. That I can still tell her stories. Still speak her name. And learn to fully appreciate all that she gave me.
I don’t want to leave flowers here, at the place where she died. That’s not how I want to remember her. Instead, I want to honor what she built when she lived.
Her garden, which I’m determined to care for, even if it means calling in expertise from the local nursery. And her work with Safe Haven, all the hours she poured into helping others. Maybe there is some way I can continue what she started and contribute to that cause.
Because those things are her legacy. The things that can still grow. The things that can live on.
Besides, the evidence is here, with or without the flowers. It’s dented into the lifeforce of this old tree, into my bones, into the very fabric of who I am.
Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to leave Blue Mountain Lake. Because once I go back to the city, it’ll be another fracture, another string snapping in the chords of my heart. The final severance. Moving forward means stepping fully into a life where she no longer exists.
Strange. When my team arrived from New York and we got to work, I braced for the inevitable pang of missing my studio—the carefully curated workspace, the walls covered in inspiration, the massive cutting tables, the constant hum of creative energy.
But as we set up a makeshift workspace, something unexpected happened. A full-circle moment. Converting my childhood bedroom into a temporary, if rather haphazard, atelier stirred memories I hadn’t revisited in years. Of being a skinny kid, twirling in front of the mirror, critiquing my latest upcycled fashion experiment.
The room where I once dreamed of independence and success…now serving as the headquarters for a high-caliber design team—stitching a wedding dress for a movie star!
And it got me thinking of all the memories embedded in that house, generations of my family’s history like a time capsule. Meanwhile, I was so emotional about potentially losing my apartment. A few years of living in a space that felt like an extension of me. That I always thought of as mine. But it’s not. I only rent it.
I’m not homeless. I have an entire house. A house left to me by my family.
I’m lucky. I’m blessed.
I can’t be bitter when I have a base to start again. If I want it.
But could this really be the place? Blue Mountain Lake—the town I spent half my life desperate to escape?
Practically speaking, it might have to be. Even if I sold the house, it wouldn’t be enough to start over in New York.
Now, I stand by the tree where my mother lost her life, tilting my head up toward its sprawling canopy. A colony of ants weaves an intricate path along the bark. A lizard darts out of reach, blending into the rough trunk. Birds squabble in the uppermost branches, their calls sharp against the hush of the forest. An entire ecosystem, connected; each part dependent on the others to survive.
So, why do humans push so hard for independence? Or is that just the broken ones? The ones too afraid—or too stubborn—to lean on anyone?
But I do have people. Like Keith said, I have lifelong connections. Him and Susan…even Nora and Harvey. Brady. Mason. By extension, Vivian and Mia.
And I have Tuck. I’ve always had Tuck. No matter how hard I’ve tried to push him away.
Maybe I don’t have to do this alone. Maybe it’s time to trust that things could actually work out. To stop clinging to the past like some kind of badge of honor.
Blaming my dad for my trust issues? That made sense when I was eight. Even at twelve. Fifteen. Maybe even twenty-five. But now? Mid-thirties? Do I really want to keep feeding that narrative? Keep telling myself I’m unlovable, unworthy, broken beyond repair?
It’s exhausting. It’s depressing. It’s bullshit.
And maybe it’s time to let it go.
Maybe I can’t fix everything overnight. But if I keep practicing, keep trying to rewire the ugly patterns, keep making the effort to pivot, I could get there.
Even the person I blamed the most—my dad—now has something to teach me. He was a total screw-up, and yet, somehow, he still found his way back to a family, to love.
Maybe that’s the way forward…not burying the past, but diving headfirst into every painful thing and asking what it gave me.
My parents splitting up? That’s what brought me to Blue Mountain Lake. That’s what gave me the people I call my lifelong friends.
Dad’s absence? It hurt like hell, but it also lit a fire under me. It pushed me to succeed, claw my way forward, and tap into that “dandelion attitude” Keith talked about.
And getting teased at school—why does that still sting? Who hasn’t been trash-talked for standing out? And what did it give me? It pushed me to make my own clothes so no one could ever mock me for wearing secondhand again. It didn’t just toughen me up—it built me. It gave me my career. And besides, I judged those girls just as much as they judged me. We were all just shitty teenagers, flailing through insecurity in different ways.
And like Misha rightly pointed out, maybe half the drama I see in other people is just me projecting my own crap. Classic main-character syndrome—assuming every weird vibe or awkward silence is somehow about me, instead of ever considering that other people might have their own stuff going on, too.
Is that it? Could it really be that simple? Just…shifting perspective?
Accepting that pain and loss and rejection aren’t just things that weigh you down—they’re also the very things that teach you how to climb. How to toughen up. How to reach higher.
But will I get there in time?
Before it’s too late?
Can I overcome my doubts before the person I love the most finally gives up on me?
A flicker of movement draws my eye—a flash of mustard yellow flitting between the branches. Then another. Two Black-throated Green Warblers dart through the trees, their bright faces like tiny bursts of sunlight against the deep green canopy.
One perches on a low branch, tilting its head, throat dark as ink, breast streaked with black. The other follows, wings flickering—restless, always on the edge of flight.
Migrants. Travelers. Always leaving, always returning.
I watch them for a long moment, their song threading through the quiet.
And when I return to my car, driving toward Blue Mountain Lake, I think about how much time I’ve spent trying to escape this place. Believing I could only find myself elsewhere. But maybe, like those little birds, I could return—on my own terms.
Then my heart constricts. The city isn’t just my career, my lifestyle. It’s also where Tuck is. And how much more can I ask of him? To upend his life, too?
Maybe he’d consider it. Maybe. If I wasn’t such a risky investment. After all, Tuck thinks in terms of contracts and negotiations. He’s a strategist, a numbers guy, someone who doesn’t bet unless the odds are in his favor.
And here I am—career in limbo, future uncertain. Except for one thing.
I want us. I want to fight for us.
But how do I convince him, after always pushing him away? How do we get to a place where we can trust each other and know we’re both in this for the long haul? A hundred percent.
I sift through the puzzle, turning it over in my mind.
Until… wait a second !
A zing of pure hope splices through my bones, filling my belly with a swirling warmth.
There could be an answer.
An answer written in the language that Tuck understands intimately. A contract that spells out obligations, stakes, and commitment.
Such a thing does exist.
Of course, it does.
A signed document with a promise of forever—
Marriage .