Chapter Twenty-Three
Rhett took the long way down Harbor Street. The chilly salt air swept through the cab as I stared out past the sidewalk, an ocean of calm water winking silver back at me. Seaglass Beach was almost completely empty, save for a few couples walking along the shoreline.
I cast him a sidelong glance, the motion whipping a loose curl across my face and reminding me of the moment I was trying to forget.
But that was the problem: Rhett Briggs was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. Not because of our run-ins or because he still had my dining set in his workshop. The more I was around him, the harder it was to lie to myself about the fact that I knew what I wanted. He was what I wanted.
And yet, finally admitting it to myself made the facts no less painful.
Turning away, I let my arm hang out the window, sleeve billowing in the wind. Anything to keep from looking at him.
The temperature dropped each day, the sun setting earlier and earlier. Normally, that change sent a thrill through me as the holidays crept closer. Autumn turned red and amber, the air sharp enough to make me cling tighter to a cup of cider.
No matter the weather, Christmas in Bluebell Cove always glowed a little brighter than any other time of year. The garland draped across Main Street and the eight-foot tree in the town plaza glittered with color—come rain, snow, or shine.
But this year, I couldn’t stop thinking about who wouldn’t be there. I could almost see it—Main Street shining, the plaza tree flickering gold. But the faces faded: Margot, Wes, Serena. Even Rhett. Ghosts of Christmases past, and of futures that never found their way.
As the truck pulled left onto Maple Street, I began counting the seconds until I’d be back home.
Part of me resisted the week slipping by; after all, the town still had a festival to pull off.
But the other half—the sensible one—knew that if I blinked and it was over, and he was gone, I’d finally be rid of this dread pressing on my shoulders.
Rhett pulled to a stop in front of my house, the lamp post outside shining an orange glow across the cab.
“Well, this is me,” I said stupidly, popping the door open.
He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, rested his forehead on it for a moment, and then swung the driver’s side door open. “Let me walk you to your door,” Rhett replied.
My pulse leapt so fast it felt like my throat couldn’t contain it. “You don’t have to.”
But he was already on my side of the truck, holding the door open so I could climb out. Our eyes met as my sneakers hit the curb. We quickly looked away. I snatched my backpack from the floorboard and tried not to trip on the cobblestones.
Rhett followed me through the gate, my weak excuse for a garden, and up the porch steps. Heat crawled up my neck as my key scraped uselessly at the lock, unable to meet his insistent gaze while I shoved it in the lock and begged it to work the first time.
The unlatching click was music to my ears. I let out a ragged sigh and looked up at him with my best smile.
“Thank you,” I murmured, one palm on the handle. “For everything. Driving me to Port Camden, buying me food—which you didn’t have to do, by the way.”
“You tell me that a lot,” he replied and crossed his arms.
“What?”
“That I don’t have to do things.”
“Oh, I—” I cleared my throat and leaned my back against the door. “Well, you’ve done a lot for me… Everett.” His full name felt nice on my lips.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Because I wanted to. Do you know why?”
He stepped closer. Dipped his chin. My pulse thundered, traitorous and loud. I silently begged him not to say it. I wasn’t sure I could survive him leaving if he did.
“Because you’re nice?” I squeaked pathetically.
Rhett smiled. “No, because—”
Just then, as if he could hear my mental pleas, Easton began barking on the other side of the door. The invisible cord snapped, and Rhett took a step backward, dragging a hand through his hair as he sucked in a long breath.
“Guess he missed me,” I tried to joke, wincing as his bark turned into a howl. “Thank you, Rhett. Truly.”
He nodded, eyes on the porch as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Marigold’s will be ready for business the day after tomorrow.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “Good.”
“Goodnight,” I added, turning to twist the knob.
“Goodnight, Georgie,” he responded, but I was already slipping inside.
Easton’s cries dropped to a whine the second I stepped foot in the house, as if he was excited to see Rhett, not me. I let my backpack hit the floor, slumping against the door and tugging my palms across my flaming face.
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there, head in my hands, before I finally gave up. Easton had sniffed my jeans and left me for the couch, presumably only interested in any lingering vestiges of Rhett’s smell, and not the woman who fed and housed him.
Kicking off my sneakers, I lingered on the rug in the foyer for a few beats. It was late. I should probably get to bed. But my hot chocolate ritual was calling, and I needed it more than ever.
I flicked on the kitchen light, the bulb humming to life overhead, and reached for the old blue tin of cocoa tucked behind the packets of cheaper stuff.
The lid squeaked like it always had, a sound so ordinary it tugged at something in my chest. My grandmother never measured the powder—she always claimed she “measured with love”—but I used the dented teaspoon she’d left in the tin anyway.
One, two, three scoops, the way she did it when I was young and she let me stay up late during a particularly loud thunderstorm.
The pot of water bubbled as I filled the chipped Morning Bell mug, steam curling against my face.
That familiar, chocolatey smell was almost instant, flooding my senses like a memory in itself.
I reached for the cinnamon jar without thinking and sprinkled just a whisper across the top, the way she used to when she wanted to make it feel “fancy.”
I smiled to myself, remembering how I’d sneak into the kitchen and pile marshmallows into the mug when she wasn’t looking.
She always knew, of course. “Cocoa’s supposed to soothe you, Georgette, not send you into a sugar fit,” she’d scold, but her eyes always crinkled with laughter when she said it.
Tonight, with no one around to judge me, I grabbed the bag from the pantry and plunked in three big marshmallows, just to feel twelve years old again.
I cradled the mug between my palms, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The first sip was always the best—the kind that melted across my tongue and settled in my chest.
Leaning against the counter, the coolness of the tile seeped through my shirt. Then, something rectangular and cream-colored caught my eye in the moonlight streaming through the window.
My stomach twisted, a frigid wave of guilt washing over me. I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten. I was so consumed with the Summer’s End Festival, and the gala, and a certain dark-eyed, tattooed carpenter, that I’d completely neglected my grandmother’s last words to me.
My vision blurred; I blinked hard, but it only made the letters swim.
Letter under one arm, I scooted an unconscious Easton that had sprawled himself across the living room couch, sitting beside him. I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders even though I wasn’t cold, set my mug aside and stared at the purple swoops and curls of my name.
I wiped at my bleary eyes, gathered an uneven breath, and gingerly ripped the seal. The paper inside was thick and soft, but I could see the indentations even from the other side. My fingers shook as I unfurled it.
My dearest Georgette,
If you are reading this, it means I’ve gone and left you on your own. (Don’t you roll your eyes at me.) You’re stubborn enough to think you don’t need my words, but I know you well enough to believe you’ll read every line twice.
First, you must know this: you were never meant to be me. Bluebell Cove doesn’t need another Marigold. It needs you—Georgie Wheeler, with your clever hands and your soft heart and your way of finding light in places I would’ve overlooked.
You’ve grown up under my shadow, and I know I cast a long one. People told me I was larger than life, but sometimes I worry I was simply loud enough to drown out other voices. Please don’t let mine be the only one in your head.
Running the flower shop was never about keeping it the same. It was about keeping it alive. And life, my girl, is a changing, breathing, stubborn thing. You don’t need to preserve it in amber. You need to let it stretch its wings—just as you must stretch yours.
I can’t tell you what your dreams are. Only you can decide that.
Maybe they’re tucked in the Cove, maybe they’re out in the wide world.
Maybe they’re in the arms of someone I wish I could’ve met.
Wherever those dreams are, don’t be afraid of them.
Don’t put them off for “later,” because later has a habit of slipping away.
Remember what I used to say whenever we burned a batch of cookies? “Well, Georgie, we’ll just start again.” Life is no different. Don’t be afraid to start again. Don’t be afraid to fail. Don’t be afraid to want.
I loved this town with every bit of myself. But I loved you more. If the Cove ever asks you to give up the one thing that makes you truly happy, then it is asking too much.
So promise me, Georgette: whatever you choose, let it be yours. Not mine. Not anyone else’s. Yours.
All my love,
Your grandmother
She was right. I read it again. Then once more, because I couldn’t bear to stop hearing her voice.
Sinking back into the couch, I carefully laid the letter across my lap. My cheeks had been wet since I started reading, but it wasn’t from sadness—it was because, for the first time in years, I could hear her voice again.
Buried beneath it all—the relief, the joy, the grief—was something sharp and stinging.
I wished I had known. I wished I hadn’t spent four years struggling and scraping by and holding onto that dream of hers by the tips of my fingers.
There was nothing I wanted more than to make her proud, even if that meant sacrificing my future.
It was just like Rhett said. She didn’t want me to do that. I had paused my life for four years because I thought it would make her happy.
But now I was released.
And the realization felt like someone had lifted a thorny yoke from around my shoulders—one I hadn’t even known was there in the first place. After years of holding my breath, I finally exhaled. The aching in my lungs and that cloud that seemed to loom no matter what I did were gone.
The possibilities were limitless.
Yet, I was already sure of what I would do. The answer was as plain as the freckles on my face.
“Ready for bed?” I asked Easton, hopping from the couch with a wide smile. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
He stretched and slithered off the couch, slowly trailing me up the stairs with heavy footsteps. Easton plunked down on my mattress as I laid the letter out on my shelf and vowed to frame it soon.
Tomorrow would be good. I could feel it in my bones, as sure as sunrise.