Chapter 17
Ivy
Donna texted me and asked me to meet her for breakfast, and she picks the place, of course. I don’t mind when she says it’s my sister’s bookstore, because I love going there.
Wisteria Cove smells like salty sea air this morning, and Wisteria Books & Brews smells like cinnamon.
The bell chimes over the door as I step inside.
The windows are fogged a little from the ovens and the cold winter air.
Someone is laughing near the fiction shelves, and an espresso machine hisses in the cafe.
I breathe in and out and try to settle my nerves.
Breakfast with Donna sounded casual over the phone, but this is the Donna Bennett.
A woman whose paperbacks live on half the coffee tables in America.
That part doesn’t intimidate me because I’ve known her all my life.
But what intimidates me is that this is Remy’s mother.
The man I’m falling deeply in love with, along with his daughter.
His mother. That matters to me. What she thinks of me matters.
She is already here at a corner table under the bay window, scarf draped like a banner, hair swept up with a pencil stuck through it, sticky notes dotting the cover of a spiral notebook.
She waves me over as if we have been doing this for years.
Well, we have. Just not with me sleeping in her son’s bed.
“Sunshine,” she says, standing to hug me. She smells of vanilla and fresh paper. “You look beautiful, and you’re glowing and radiant.”
I’ve always loved Donna so much, and she’s called me sunshine for as long as I can remember.
“That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say, laughing, as she pulls me into a second hug just because she can.
Willa pops up from behind the counter holding a tray of scones and wearing a black apron and a smile. “Ivy! Hey! Your usual?”
“Make it fancy. I am trying to impress our favorite author,” I tease, which makes Donna press a hand to her chest and sigh.
Willa leans on the table like we are gossiping at a sleepover. “Two cinnamon rolls, one giant bowl of fruit, and a side of bacon. Coffee for Donna and a maple latte for Ivy. I am the boss, so you cannot argue. I know what you both like by now.”
“Boss of this entire town,” Donna says. “I should have brought you a sash.”
Willa laughs and flits away, calling hello to Tate as he ducks in. Rowan breezes past with a tray of scones for the display and squeezes my shoulder as she goes.
“You okay?” Rowan asks, eyes soft.
“I’m good,” I say, and I realize that I mean it.
“Excellent. I will be back to interrogate you about a certain tree farmer,” she sings, which makes Donna wiggle her eyebrows like she’s jumping in line for this, too.
“I’m nervous,” I admit when we sit. “I shouldn’t be. It’s just breakfast.”
“It is not just breakfast,” Donna says, tapping her notebook. “It is a fresh new start for you as my son’s love interest.”
I groan and laugh. “Donna…”
The laugh shakes something loose in me. I take off my coat and fold it over my chair. Outside, the harbor is a sheet of gray, and gulls cut the sky like paper kites. Inside, the table feels warm under my palms.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say.
“Thank you for making my son smile again,” she says without missing a beat.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I like that smile.” The words come out honest and simple, and Donna’s eyes shine.
“That’s the magic,” she says.
Before I can ask her what she means by that, Willa arrives with plates and plates and more plates, then the maple latte with a foam heart so perfect I hesitate to ruin it. “Eat,” she orders. “And tell me something good.”
“Junie has a Christmas program coming up,” I say, and all three of us make plans to attend together.
Tate calls goodbye from across the room as he leaves with a bag of scones.
Mrs. Callahan from the florist pops in to pin a flyer for the Holiday Bake Sale to the community board.
Someone asks Willa about a book club pick.
Rowan dips through the new opening between the shops.
She helps Willa, and Willa helps her. Having adjoining shops was a genius idea.
Donna waits until I have powdered sugar on my mouth to slide a canvas tote across the table. The bag looks ordinary, but it lands with the weight of a gift.
“For you,” she says. “A little light reading.”
I peek inside and freeze. The covers are unfamiliar, and yet I recognize the names.
Top romance authors. All galleys. All not out yet.
Books people wait months for and would sell a kidney to access.
Books I used to preorder to the Kindle I had to hide from Derek.
God, why didn’t I see the red flags with that guy sooner?
Sometimes I remember something with him and question all of my choices.
“Are these for me to borrow?” I ask, even though I know the answer. My hands shake in the best way.
“For you to keep,” she says, “And if one of them makes your heart flip, no pressure. If you hate them, hand them back to me and blame my poor taste. But I think you will love at least three. Maybe five. I know your favorites.”
“I have not read in ages,” I say, throat tight. “Not for fun.”
Donna tilts her head. “Why not?”
Willa looks over like she wants to answer for me, but she stays quiet and slides a plate of bacon over.
“Derek,” I say. The name tastes like stale gum. “He didn’t like that I read books and said that romance novels were unrealistic. That they gave women dumb expectations.”
Donna’s mouth falls open. “Expectations of what?”
I laugh, a quick burst. “If I had a book in my bag, he would say, you know that stuff never happens in real life. I got a secret Kindle and kept it in my purse, so he couldn’t see what I was reading and judge me.”
My mom, Lilith, arrives and carries the scent of the harbor in on her coat. She kisses my cheek, then hugs Donna, then peeks into the tote.
“Presents,” she smiles. “Good. She needs them.”
“We were talking about Ivy’s ex,” Donna says gently, then catches herself. “Sorry, darling. Should I not say his name out loud?”
My mom’s smile is bright. “Derek could not measure up to the bare minimum. There. I have said my truth for the day.”
Donna looks floored and a little delighted. “I agree after what I’m hearing.”
My mom shrugs and steals a piece of bacon. “Romance is the best,” she says, as if we are stating the weather. “If we don’t believe in romance, what are we even doing?”
Donna points with her fork. “Put that on a T-shirt.”
Willa reappears with a pot of coffee and tops us off. “We can hang the T-shirt in the front window,” she says. “Next to the display for Donna’s new book.”
“Speaking of,” Donna says, then pretends to hide under the table. “I have a new one due to the editor next week, and I am a monster until launch day on the current one. Please forgive me in advance for texting you all at two in the morning to ask if the ending makes you sob in a good way.”
“It does,” Willa says. “I read the last pages last night and then cried myself to sleep because we have to wait so long for your next one.”
I am smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. I love spending time with all of them.
The tote sits against my calf like a bag of gifts.
I let myself imagine a night where I climb into bed and open a book, and no one makes a face about it.
The thought lights me up from the inside.
No way would Remy ever make fun of romance books.
His mom is a romance author. And for that, Remy has never made fun of me for anything.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him make fun of anyone for something they love.
Except maybe Finn. Those two give each other hell like brothers daily, and it’s kind of funny.
“Books are so important, honey. Anyone who makes fun of someone for reading is ignorant. I know my sons would never,” Donna says with a pointed look.
“I’ve missed this,” I say. “Not just reading. Being back here.”
Donna reaches across and covers my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady. “You get to have all of it,” she says. “Love in your life and love on the page. Anyone who tells you differently doesn’t know how good it can be.”
My mom nods. “Your heart knows what it wants. It always has. It picked Wisteria Cove. It picked your sisters. And now it has picked a man who finally puts you and your feelings first.”
“He reads to Junie at night,” I say, and I don’t try to swallow the emotion in it. “He voices all the characters. She lives for it and then she falls asleep on his shoulder.”
Donna dabs at her eyes with a napkin. “I am fine. Carry on.”
A couple from the school board waves on their way out.
Mr. Gardner from the hardware store stops to tell Donna he saved her space for book night.
Rowan slides a small glass bottle onto our table with handwritten tags.
Joy, she has written. For courage and for opening.
She does not explain. She does not need to.
Rowan just mixes things and knows things.
I tuck the bottle into the tote between the galleys. The weight changes. It feels like a future I can hold in my hands.
“Tell me what you love to read,” Donna says, pencil ready. “Tropes, witches, cowboys, fake dating, secret identities. Give me your heart, and I will give you six titles to match.”
I laugh and do as I am told. I tell her about books that felt like doorways when I was fourteen.
I tell her about a college library where I hid in the romance aisle because every spine looked like a promise.
Willa adds a recommendation so fast she has to run and grab the last copy off the shelf before someone else does.
My mom adds in a couple of her favorites, then orders more bacon for the table.
When Donna talks about her new book, she lights up in a way that makes everyone at the next table lean closer.
The heroine runs a flower cart by the pier, and the hero is a widower who keeps every love letter his wife ever wrote, then learns how to write new ones to a future he never thought he could have.
I am done for by the time she hits the midpoint.
“Put me on the pre-order list,” I say. “Take all my money. I need it.”
“You are on the dedication page,” she says, deadpan, then breaks into a grin at my face. “Kidding. But you can be in the next acknowledgments if you promise to bring me donuts the morning after launch.”
“Deal,” I say, and we shake like we are closing a real estate contract.
After a while, the plates look like stories. Smears of jam, coffee rings, crumbs that glitter with sugar. The morning has shifted to later. People come and go. Everyone says hello to us at the corner table. Every hello holds a little vote of confidence. It is simple, and it is beautiful.
Donna buys one cinnamon roll to go for Pete, then tucks a small notebook into the tote on top of the galleys. “For your thoughts,” she says. “On books or on life. They are the same thing most days.”
“Thank you,” I say, and her love hits me in the chest.
We stand at the same time. Before I can reach for my coat, Donna pulls me into a hug that feels like coming home. My mom wraps an arm around both of us and kisses my cheek. We all say our goodbyes, and I head out with a full heart. My cup is full.
Outside, the harbor wind lifts my scarf, and the sun finds a seam in the clouds.
The tote is heavy. I hold it close and head toward the truck parked up the street.
I can see the tree farm in my mind as I walk, the way the rows look like music and the way Remy smiles when he sees me.
I think about tonight, and the bed, and a book waiting on the nightstand.
I think about how it will feel to read for an hour while Remy catches up on paperwork at the kitchen counter and Junie sneak-watches an animated show with her headphones on, both of us glancing up at each other to share the good parts.
Romance is the best, Donna said. If we don’t believe in it, what are we even doing?
I tuck the tote higher on my shoulder and believe it with my whole life.