Chapter 36 #2
“It means she loves you, you dense boy.” Betty shakes her head. “It means while you’ve got some groveling to do, she loves you more than she’s afraid of her fears. And for Clover, that’s everything.”
I’m panting. I think I’ve cracked a few ribs trying to fill my lungs with air.
I almost threw this all away because I was too scared to stay.
A hot spike of fury cuts through the guilt. Not at Clover, not even at Terra, but at myself.
“The blueprints,” I say slowly, dragging all my focus to the future, and the steps I’ll take to ensure it. “Savvy will sell her side of the duplex?”
Chief holds up a contract. “Selling it to Clover for two hundred bucks.”
Two hundred dollars is absurd. I’ll ensure Savvy gets at least fair market value.
“And we gotta talk about the garage,” Pops says, pulling a rolled-up magazine out of his front pocket. “Now, I know the plans call for a two-car garage, but let me show you this.” He opens the magazine to showcase a man cave, complete with eight TVs and a pool table.
“You want me to convert our garage into a man cave for you?”
“Not just me,” Pops protests. “It would be for the R&R community. Very important for neighborhood morale ’cause it’s getting harder and harder for some folks to get to the Chug. And if you expanded—”
I hold up my hand to cut off his ridiculous pitch and turn toward Chief. “Show me the rest.”
“Can’t,” Agnes says, pushing them forward. “Clover will be back soon. You’ve got something more important to do.”
Chief grumbles but gets to his feet. “Come on. The ladies want you to decorate the porch before Clover gets here. Something about creating a welcoming energy, and if you don’t do it yourself, you’ll end up with crystals in places crystals shouldn’t be.”
I have so many questions but decide to shut my mouth and follow Chief outside instead.
“Chief,” I say, when we arrive on the porch. “I—” Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be. “I owe you an apology too. I shouldn’t have left like I did.”
Lifting his chin, he sniffs the air. “You know, I watched her mail letters to you week after week with no idea if you were even alive. She never gave up on you.”
There’s a log in my throat that makes it impossible to breathe. “I know.”
“You ever gonna give up on her again?” He fiddles with a cardboard box he finds on the porch swing.
“No, sir. I’m not.”
“Don’t make her regret all that faith she placed in you, son.”
“I swear I won’t, Chief. I fucked up. I made a stupid decision, but I’m not a stupid man. I know what we have. I know when something’s worth fighting for. I just…”
“Got lost in your head.”
“Yeah,” I say, lowering my gaze.
“Don’t get lost again, Valen. Because if you do, I know places in these woods where they’ll never find a body. And I’ve got friends who’ll help me dig.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking.
I don’t think he is.
“Understood,” I say.
“Good. Now get to work.” He shoves a box into my hands as the squabbling of the older generation meets us on the porch.
“Those fairy lights need to go up high,” Agnes says, tapping something in my box with a bony finger just as the first crack of thunder rumbles in the sky—luckily, the rain seems to be holding off.
“She won’t see them if they’re below eye level.
” She clomps down the steps and then begins barking directions, and the magic of small-town life comes alive.
Pops arranges flowers—badly. I can’t even tell if they’re alive, but they sit in soda bottles and vases along the porch. Betty sets up so many candles, I make a mental note to grab a fire extinguisher before she lights them, and Chief offers unhelpful commentary while I begin to string lights.
“This seems like a lot,” I say, stretching to hook the lights over a beam.
“It’s not enough,” Agnes insists. “This is a homecoming fourteen years in the making. A reunion. The energy needs to be right, or the whole thing falls apart.”
“The energy,” I repeat flatly.
“Don’t mock what you don’t understand, boy.” She points a gnarled finger at me. “I’ve been reading auras a long time, and I’m telling you—this porch needs more warmth, or Clover’s going to take one look at it and think you put in no effort whatsoever.”
“I’ve already hung over ten strands of lights,” I remind her. “I’m not trying to mock anything, but what Clover needs from me is an apology and an explanation.”
She crosses her arms. “That’s true, but sometimes words are just empty promises. Sometimes in life, you have to go the extra mile to get to the happily ever after.”
“Clover’s a storyteller, Valen, so tell her a story.” Chief stands and hands me a small shoebox full of photos.
Dozens of them. Some clearly from Clover’s early childhood—faded images of a smiling baby with light brown hair and wide eyes. Some more recent—Clover with her friends, with the townspeople, and tucked in the corner, carefully preserved, a single photo that makes my heart stop.
Two little kids. A boy and a girl. The girl is holding a honeybee in the palm of her hand, laughing at something while the boy stares down at her as though she’s his own personal sun he’s lucky enough to orbit.
“Where did she get this?”
“FBI agent,” Chief says softly. “He left her with some pieces of her past, thinking it would help her remember who she was before she became Clover. He said this photo was on a camera they found near the location of her parents’ crash.”
Someone captured the very first time I ever laid eyes on Clover.
My vision blurs as I stare at it, and finally, I can see the Prince Valor she’s always claimed me to be.
Now I simply have to prove it.
By the time we’re finished, the inn’s porch is something straight out of a movie. The fairy lights dip low, casting a soft golden glow. Photos hang from fishing line, creating a timeline of her life and our love.
Even the candles and mismatched vases seem to work here, and Agnes insists it all creates visual interest that Clover won’t be able to look away from.
Above the door is a hand-painted sign that Pops pulled from the basement. The letters aren’t straight, but are painted with obvious care, and it tugs at something deep in my soul because it feels like it’s for me too.
“It needs something,” Agnes says, studying the sign critically. “It’s too generic. Anyone could be coming home. It should be personal.”
My gaze catches on the photo of our first meeting again. I’ve been drawn to it since I first saw it. It’s something I want to have blown up and hung on the wall of our family room.
If she accepts my apology.
“Do you have a marker?” I ask.
Pops produces one from somewhere in his bottomless overalls, and I reach up to the sign. I’m not an artist, but some things don’t require skill.
I draw a large honeybee in the corner. Simple lines, definitely lopsided, but unmistakable. Next to it, I add a tiny honeycomb.
Agnes peers up at it with a soft sound of approval. “Perfect.”
“That’s real sweet,” Betty says, her voice thick with emotion. “You know, the town’s still fighting about what to put on the new welcome sign. Been arguing for months. But that right there…” She points to my little honeybee. “That says something.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It says I can’t draw.”
“It says home,” Agnes corrects without her usual sass. “It says this is where you bee-long. That’s what Happiness is all about, right?”
Objectively, that little bee is terrible, but it’s ours—just like our story.
Stepping back, I take in the full effect of the decorated porch.
“She’s going to think this is too much,” I say.
Phones buzz all around us.
“They’re five minutes out,” Betty says.
Five minutes. In five minutes, I’ll find out if the damage I’ve caused can be repaired.
Nothing in my life has ever scared me more.
“Scatter,” Agnes shouts, clapping her hands. “Everyone out. Give the man some space. He doesn’t need an audience for this.”
“But—” Pops isn’t leaving without a fight.
“Out,” Agnes repeats firmly. “You can interrogate them both tomorrow. Tonight is just for them.”
I appreciate her sentiment, but I don’t believe for one second that I’ll have privacy for my apology. It’s simply not how things are done in Happiness.
There’s grumbling, but one by one, they file off the porch and out of sight. Agnes pauses to press something cool into my palm.
“Rose quartz,” she says. “For love. Keep it in your pocket.”
I don’t believe in crystals, but you can bet your ass I put it in my pocket anyway. I’m not taking any chances.
Chief is the last to leave. He stops at the top of the steps and turns back to me.
“She’s going to forgive you,” he says quietly. “In some ways, she probably already has. But don’t you dare waste this chance, son. You don’t get too many of them.”
“On my life,” I say, pressing my palm to my heart.
He nods with a crooked smile, then disappears inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And finally, I know what it means to come home.