Chapter 15 #3
The walk into town took twenty minutes, through the forest and the path they’d walked last night.
It wound through pines and past summer cottages closed up for the season, their windows dark, their docks pulled in.
The sky lightened as he walked—gray to pink to gold—and by the time he reached the edge of the town square, the sun was clearing the tree line.
Huck had followed him, padding along at his heels with the patient loyalty of a dog that’d learned not to ask questions. Finn caught up with them somewhere along the way, appearing from the direction of Lila’s cottage, tongue lolling, tail wagging like he hadn’t just abandoned his post.
“Traitor,” Nate told him.
Finn wagged harder.
The square was waking up. Vendors were setting up booths along the perimeter—tables being unfolded, canopies going up, boxes of merchandise being unloaded from trucks. Someone was testing a speaker system, and country music crackled in and out.
The big maple tree in the center of the square had been transformed.
Flannel ribbons—red-and-black-and-blue plaid—wrapped around its trunk and hung from its lower branches, fluttering in the morning breeze.
The effect was somewhere between festive and absurd, and Nate found himself smiling despite everything.
This was Maple Lake. This was the town where he and Emma had grown up, where they’d written their first books together, where they’d dreamed about the future during long summer afternoons on the dock.
He hadn’t let himself feel part of it in three years. But this morning—the morning after the kiss—something felt different.
He crossed to Maple Sweets. The bakery door chimed when he pushed it open, and the smell hit him like a wave: cinnamon, maple, fresh bread, butter. Remi was behind the counter, flour dusted across her apron, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“Nate Rivers.” Her smile was bright, uncomplicated. “Two days in a row. We’re on a streak.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“The festival will do that.” She was already pouring his coffee—black, no sugar. She remembered. “How’s the book going? Everyone’s been asking.”
“It’s nearly done. Just one more scene.”
“Are you serious? That’s amazing! I need to add a whole heap more stars to your chart.” She slid the cup across the counter, then walked over to the chapter tracker. “So you’re writing chapter twenty?” she asked as she began adding stars.
He picked up the coffee. Could only nod. The idea that the town had been paying attention—that they cared, that they were betting on him—was still disorienting in a way he couldn’t quite name.
Remi finished adding the stars, then took out a marker and wrote Last Chapter!! above the final square. “We were fully prepared to add more squares if we needed to,” she said as she turned to him with a grin. “I’m glad for your sake that we don’t need to.”
“Thanks,” he managed. “For the coffee. And the…faith.”
“Always.” Her smile softened. “Your sister would be proud, you know. Of the book. Of you.”
His throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and walked back out into the morning light.
He found a bench in the sun, near the flannel-clad maple. Sat down. Wrapped his cold hands around the warm cup.
The dogs settled at his feet. The vendors continued their setup. A woman arranged pumpkins outside the General Store. A man strung more lights between lampposts. The fountain in the center of the square caught the morning sun, water sparkling.
This was his town. He’d forgotten that. Forgotten that he belonged here, that these people had known him his whole life, that Emma’s memory lived in more places than just his lake house.
“Mind if I join you?”
He looked up. Hazel Brightman stood beside the bench, a canvas tote bag over her shoulder, her purple cardigan embroidered with autumn leaves. The head librarian. She’d known him since he was seven years old, checking out books about dragons and magic and worlds that didn’t exist yet.
“Please.” He shifted to make room.
She sat down with a small sigh, setting her bag between them. “Beautiful morning.”
“It is.”
“I saw you at the festival last night.” A pause. “With your agent friend.”
He felt his face warm. “She’s been helping with the book.”
“Mmm.” Hazel’s tone was carefully neutral. “She seems lovely.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he took a sip of coffee instead.
“The whole town’s been rooting for you, you know.” Hazel’s voice was softer now. “Ever since Emma passed. We’ve been watching that lake house, hoping to see signs of life.”
“I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
“That’s the thing about small towns.” She smiled. “We’re always watching. But we’re also always hoping.”
A lump formed in his throat. He stared at his coffee cup, at the steam rising in the cool air.
“Emma was such a big part of this town,” Hazel continued. “Her story hour during the festival—the children still talk about it. She had this way of making every story feel like magic. Like anything was possible.”
“She did.” His voice came out rough.
“You’ll be at the dedication, right? Tomorrow, at the closing ceremony?”
He looked at her. “The what?”
Hazel’s expression shifted—surprise, then something careful. “The children’s library dedication. The Storybook Corner. Um…” She swallowed. “Livvie—she’s been working on it for weeks. I assumed you knew.”
The coffee cup went still in his hands. “I don’t…what are you talking about?”
“Oh.” Hazel’s brow creased. “Oh dear. I thought—she said she was going to tell you. She found Emma’s notebook, the one with all the sketches and plans for the reading corner. She’s been working on the murals, the reading nook, all of it. The dedication is tomorrow at the closing ceremony.”
Emma’s notebook.
The blue one. With her initials on the cover. The one he’d searched for—in Emma’s room, in the boathouse, everywhere—while Livvie had watched him and said nothing.
“She had the notebook?”
“I guess so. She brought it to me and asked if we could finish Emma’s project. I thought—” Hazel paused. “I thought you were working on it together.”
His hands shook. He set the coffee cup down on the bench before he spilled it. “Can I see it? The Storybook Corner?”
“Of course. I was heading there now—I have the key. Come.”
The library was quiet.
That particular library silence that felt like held breath. Creaking wood floors. The smell of old paper and lemon polish. Dust motes floating in the light from tall windows.
Hazel led him through the stacks, past the children’s section, to the back corner. The area that had been roped off for three years, ever since Emma had gotten too sick to finish what she’d started.
The rope was gone now.
And the Storybook Corner was finished.
He stopped in the doorway. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The mural covered two entire walls.
A forest from the Thornwood books—ancient trees with faces in the bark, a path winding into golden light, creatures half hidden in the underbrush.
Jeweled colors filled the space—emerald moss, amber sunlight, the silver-blue of twilight shadows.
Every detail was perfect, the way Emma had described it, the way he’d written it, the way they’d imagined it together on summer afternoons when she was too weak to leave her bed and they’d built worlds with words instead.
In one corner, barely visible unless you knew to look, was a girl with a book in her lap, sitting under a willow tree. She had Emma’s smile.
His throat filled.
The reading nook was built into a carved tree trunk—actual wood, sanded and shaped until it looked like something that had grown there instead of being built. Cushions inside, soft and inviting. A child could curl up in there and disappear into a story.
Child-sized chairs shaped like woodland creatures—a fox, an owl, a rabbit. Each one hand painted with details that matched the mural.
Bookshelves along the walls, carved to look like castle battlements. Full of picture books now, their spines bright with color.
And in the corner, on a small easel, a sign: The Emma Rivers Storybook Corner—Dedicated at the Flannel Festival Closing Ceremony.
It was perfect.
It was everything Emma had wanted.
And Livvie had done this without telling him.
“How did she do this?” His voice didn’t sound like his own.
“She used Emma’s ideas,” Hazel said, her tone gentle and proud.
“The notebook had sketches, color notes, everything. Wes Donovan, who just arrived back in town, did the woodwork—the reading nook, the chairs, the bookshelves. Livvie painted the mural herself, working from Emma’s drawings.
She’s been here every morning, before she went to help you with the book. ”
Every morning. Before she brought him coffee and doughnuts. Before she read his chapters and asked her probing questions. She’d been here, working with his sister’s notebook, finishing his sister’s dream.
Without telling him.
He moved into the space. Touched the mural. Ran his hand along the carved tree trunk, the smooth wood still smelling of sawdust. Looked at the sign with Emma’s name.
The anger came slowly, then all at once.
She had stolen Emma’s notebook. The one with all his sister’s notes on romance arcs, on story structure, on everything Emma understood about hearts and hope. The one he’d been looking for, desperate to finish the story.
And all this time…Livvie had watched him search. Had lied to him while he fell in love with her.
“I have to go.”
“Nate—”
He strode out of the library, into the morning light that suddenly seemed too bright, too cheerful, too much.
The dogs scrambled to follow him.
The walk to Lila’s cottage took twelve minutes.
He counted them. Counted his steps. Counted anything that wasn’t the rage building in his chest, because if he stopped counting, he’d have to feel, and he wasn’t ready to feel.
She’d had the notebook. She’d watched him grieve. She’d kept secrets.
I was trying to help, he imagined her saying.