Chapter 40 Knox
CHAPTER FORTY
KNOX
As I drive down Main Street on my way to the cemetery, I try not to let my mind—or my gaze— wander too much. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to visit my father’s grave and to say goodbye.
In the months I lived in Ceres Cove, I never once did this. I never once gathered up the strength or courage to visit it. I missed his funeral by an hour, so that opportunity was lost, and I kept making excuses to myself about why I couldn’t go after.
Truth is, I was scared. I didn’t know how to feel about Walter back then—certainly not in those first days.
Now, though, after months of reading his journals and traveling all around Scotland, after reaching out to extended family and friends, I feel like I have a grasp on the kind of man Walter—my dad—was.
He was a quiet Scot, from a minuscule town, who was looking for adventure after his doctorate.
It’s why he made the crazy decision to go straight into teaching in America.
He was a secret romantic who fell for my mother the second she walked through his classroom door.
They fought it for a long time, but eventually let themselves fall in love.
From what I’d heard from his brother (I have an uncle!), Dad knew immediately Ma was it for him.
The trouble was that, even though my mother had strong feelings, I don’t think she knew how to follow through on them.
He was devastated when she left, spent many years wondering about her as he continued to teach, hoping one day she’d come back.
Was both enraged and overjoyed when she did, pissed for hiding me but thankful I existed.
He loved me through all our fights and arguments, through the decade we weren’t speaking.
Kept tabs on his son like the devoted father he truly was.
Took care of my mother, even when she didn’t ask for help.
And in his final days, after he’d been diagnosed, he wanted to leave me with something he thought would bring me eternal happiness.
And no, it wasn’t the bookstore.
I turn onto the gravel driveway, following the directions in my email while I wind through the cemetery.
It’s my first time in one, so I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness as I think about all the people who lost loved ones.
I drive by a couple laying flowers on a headstone, leaning into each other with solemn faces.
And then the guilt hits me, because I don’t think anyone’s come to visit Walter since his funeral.
Did many people attend? I could never bring myself to ask Lottie.
God, just thinking her name makes my heart ache. Even after all these months, I love her just as much as I did the last time I laid eyes on her. And now being here, in this town… I knew it would open up old wounds, but I owed it to both my dad and myself to come.
Once I make it to the row of plots, I park my truck and freeze. It takes a couple of deep breaths before I can gather enough strength to get out. After just a few moments, I reach him.
His headstone looks relatively new, having been placed only recently. Just a bit of moss is growing on it, which I brush off when I kneel before him.
“Hey, Dad.” I have to choke down a sob, squeeze my eyes shut while I gather myself.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come see you.
I’ve been trying to sort through everything that’s happened between us.
Not just after we fought, but my entire life.
And yours, for that matter.” I pause. I thought I’d feel silly, speaking to a stone.
But there’s something cathartic about saying things out loud.
Something big about admitting your feelings.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I… I don’t think there are words enough to describe how sorry I am about the time we wasted being apart.
I’m sorry for being so immature. It’s been about nine months, and I think I’ve finally completed the five stages of grief, though I gotta say denial stuck with me so damn long I was starting to believe it wasn’t what I was experiencing.
But I’m sad, Dad. And… And I guess I’ve accepted that.
I guess I’ve accepted you’re gone and, as much as it hurts, I’ve accepted there’s no way we’ll ever get that time back.
But I loved getting to know you better over the past six months.
So thank you for leaving me enough breadcrumbs that I could follow in my journey to do so.
Reading your journals was incredibly difficult, but…
it was nice. Getting to know you like that.
I only wish you’d have known me better. Or maybe not.
Maybe you’d be disappointed in me. Who knows?
” I sigh and sit back, crossing my legs in front of me on the dewy grass.
“I gotta say it was extremely frustrating at times, though, reading your journals and having to admit that you were right more times than you were wrong. It’s annoying, actually.
” I smile to myself and pick a blade of grass from my jeans.
“You were definitely wrong on two counts, though. You were wrong about what you thought would bring me eternal happiness. And I know you know you were wrong about my career. Showed you, didn’t I, old man? Winning awards left and right.” I laugh once, in spite of it all.
“Anyway, I came here to say hi—finally. But also to say goodbye. It’s time I figured out what I want now.
I don’t think… I don’t think I want to keep traveling so much.
Or maybe I do. But I need to set down roots somewhere.
I liked my time in Ceres Cove—though admittedly, much of it had to do with You-Know-Who.
So I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll pull a Walter Adams. Maybe I find a quiet town I can get down with and find my place there. Who the hell knows.”
I heave myself to my feet, feeling much older than my age. “Goodbye, old man. Love you.”
I know it might seem like tempting fate, walking back into the same bar I met her in nine months ago.
But I remind myself I shouldn’t worry—Lottie’s in New York, after all.
Although I did forget all about her brother, so when I sit at the bar and he walks up to take my order, Alejandro and I both freeze. “You’re—You’re back.”
Shit.
“Yeah. Hey, man.”
“Are you here for…”
I lift a hand. “No, no. Just visiting my dad’s grave.”
“Oh, yeah?” He glances nervously around the bar, guilt clear on his face. Does he feel like he’s betraying his sister talking to me or something? I mean, she dumped me.
“Yeah.”
We fall into an awkward silence—a painful one.
“Well, can I—ah—get you something?” His tone is unexpectedly nice, calm. Very our past interactions. Instead of downright antagonism, he’s welcoming. The smile on his face is almost kind.
It’s disorienting, is what it is.
“Sure,” I almost stutter. “IPA would be nice.”
He shoots me a genuine smile and a “no problem” before coming back with a frosty bottle. He places it gingerly in front of me, leaning on his forearms to get a better look at me.
“You look… good, man.”
I choke on a sip. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
“Are you staying long?”
“No. Like I said, was just visiting my dad’s grave on my way back home. Or I guess to my mom’s. I’ve been traveling for the past six months.”
He nods seriously. “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah. Just having a beer before I hit the road.”
“You probably shouldn’t drink and drive, then.”
Duh. I shrug. “It’s just one beer. And I’ll eat something before I go.”
“Right.” He looks away for a beat before turning back with a face-splitting grin. “You know. Today’s the grand opening of the new bookstore in town. Where your dad’s place used to be.”
“Oh, yeah?” I swallow, my heart jumping in my chest.
“You should check it out. From what I heard, they have a really cool cafe in there, too. The new owner bought the space beside it and really opened up the place. Now you can sit there, order coffee and a muffin and read all afternoon. And some nights, they open the wine bar and serve tapas or whatever.”
“That actually sounds… kind of incredible. Definitely different from anything this town has seen, right? It sounds like something Lo—” I grimace, catching my slip just in time. “Lots of people would enjoy. You know, since there isn’t anything really that chill.”
“Yeah, they reinstated book club, too. Which, as you know, was a pretty big deal here.”
I nod, wanting off the subject. Too close to Lottie. And any topic close to Lottie starts picking at those stitches. What a visual.
“Right.”
He gives me a look, as if waiting for me to come to this magical realization.
“How about I give you the flyer? You can go once you’re done with this beer.
” From behind the bar, he pulls out a pink sheet of paper, an illustration of the new storefront under the words GRAND OPENING SATURDAY with the times below.
“Uh, sure. I guess I could check it out.”
“Good. Good, yes.” And it’s that odd look in his eyes plus the unsettling feeling that this man who has historically been so antagonistic towards me but was so welcoming now that leads me to walk the five minutes it takes to the new bookstore in town: Strike a Prose.
I snort at the name, bringing an unexpected smile to my face. “Strike a Prose,” I repeat under my breath. “Classic.”
Without another thought, I push the door to the bookstore open.
As soon as I do, I freeze. Because whoever bought this bookstore has turned this place into definitely more than just that.
The space has been divided into three clear sections.
On the left, the actual bookstore part of the space filled with several bays of books each one containing a wide variety to suit everyone’s needs, apparently.
On the right, a cafe where I can currently see people lining up, eyeing brownies and other baked goods behind the display case.
In the middle, a bar at the far end of the room with a set of couches surrounding a coffee table, where many people are currently enjoying a book.
And wherever there seemed to be enough space on the wall, large prints of photographs of the town and of its people.
My photographs.