37. Alice
ALICE
Holly River is alive with the promise of celebration. Stringed lights sweep back and forth between light posts and wrap around pine trees. Pumpkins squatting on haystacks line Main Street, and silk maple leaves encircle the gazebo cupola like an ornate crown atop its head.
My headaches have stopped and the skin glue is gone, leaving only a thin pink line that I cover with my hair. I should feel happy, and lucky, that I’m okay, that the Fall Festival is only three days away, and that my final book shipment has arrived.
But instead, I feel exposed, as if I’m walking around skinless, vulnerable to the elements.
And it’s all because I can’t stop thinking about Colt leaving.
In three days, the festival will unfold—boisterous and enchanting—and then he will go, his job here complete.
I can’t believe I allowed myself to imagine he’d stay.
“That went as well as could be expected,” Maggie says.
We’re walking back from test running the festival attraction. And she’s right, if it all falls into place, and it seems like it might, then it’ll be even better than I hoped. “It’s really something," I agree. “Everyone worked so hard on it.”
Maggie bumps my shoulder. “Yeah and, you know, it was your idea.”
I smile at her. “An idea is nothing without people to execute it.”
“Which you also did,” she reminds me.
My eyes travel from one neighbor’s porch to another as we approach my place. It’s like they’re trying to out-decorate each other, and the overall effect—even if it does come from a place of competition—is breathtaking. I wish it lifted my spirit the way it normally does.
“It’s too bad we weren’t able to get those boats,” I lament.
Maggie doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she says, “You getting close on the bookshop? I can’t wait to see you flip that sign to Open. I’m so proud of what you guys have accomplished, Alice.”
I smile, grateful for Maggie’s kindness. Colt and I really have given it our all, but there’s so much more to tackle before Friday. “Finishing feels like digging a hole in sand,” I explain. “Every time we knock out one thing, another pops up.”
“Like gophers on a golf course,” Maggie says. “Damn, we’re killing it with the similes today. Is that right? Similes? Or metaphors?”
“Simile.”
“Pssh. What do you know?” She winks. “So, what’s left to do?”
I blow out a breath that fogs in the chill.
“Everything. I’m still manually correcting SKUs because the scanner hates books.
And that damaged shipment? I’ve got to photograph every bent cover to get a refund.
My middle-grade section looks bare, so I need to put in a rush order.
The lightbulbs are emitting different shades of light, the front door sticks, the extension cords need hiding, my receipt printer needs unjamming.
Oh, and Google doesn’t have our hours listed and we still don’t have a permanent sign above the door and— Should I keep going? ”
We stop outside my house, and Maggie grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “You’ll get there. I promise you, Alice. I was in the same situation when I opened Pardon My Garden. But you’ll cross that finish line or my name isn’t Maggie Aphrodite Rockefeller.”
I laugh and pull Maggie into a hug, holding on for a beat too long. When I release her, Maggie’s eyes move to the front porch, where Colt is crouched down installing new door handle hardware. He glances over his shoulder and waves.
“Hiii!” Maggie sings. Then, under her breath, she mutters, “Lord. You guys need sleep.”
“He’s been killing himself,” I admit.
“He cares about you.” Maggie starts walking backward. “Let him.” She waves once more and then turns, heading toward her shop to finish her dahlia bouquets, which she’ll wrap and sell outside her shop come Friday.
I walk up the sidewalk and Colt stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. Up close, the exhaustion on his face is unmistakable. He looks like he can barely keep his eyes open. And yet, he smiles at me, reaches for me. It’s enough to make my throat tighten with emotion.
The last three days, we’ve worked until the windows went black.
But after we fell into bed, utterly spent, we’ve still come together, lips on skin, hands and mouths drawing pleasure from each other’s bodies before he’s moving inside me.
Few words are exchanged. We’re too exhausted for that.
Or perhaps it’s that we don’t know what to say, or what will happen after he leaves.
In the middle of the night, Colt always rises, shifting the mattress as little as possible before returning to the work downstairs. I know, because when I rise the following morning, tasks are completed that weren’t the night before.
“Okay, Superman,” I say. “It’s time for bed.”
Colt’s eyes drift to the sky. “There’s still light. Just need one more—”
“Colt, look at me.” My voice is firm but quiet.
The porch light catches the lines of fatigue on his face.
“You need sleep. I know you’ve been getting up after we go to bed.
Let me handle tonight’s list.” When he starts to argue, I take the screwdriver from his fingers, setting it on the railing. “Bed. Please.”
Something flickers in his eyes—relief, maybe, or surrender.
He lets me lead him inside and up the stairs to my bedroom.
The house smells like the molasses candle I burned earlier, reminding me that I still need to eat dinner.
I guide Colt until his knees hit the bed.
He falls face-first onto the mattress, and I smile at the sight.
As he buries his face in the pillow, I remove his boots, setting them gently on the floor.
Then I cover his strong, wide frame with a quilt.
Before I’ve even reached the door, his breathing has evened out.
I shut the door quietly and stand there, my heart full and aching at once.
Padding back downstairs, I stop at the landing to admire how the last of the sunlight spills through the new window, making the book spines appear golden.
It’s a sheet of uninterrupted glass, that window, taking up almost the entire front wall, and it’s exactly how I always envisioned it.
For a moment, I feel unbridled satisfaction.
The sight is enough to make me push up the sleeves of my sweater and get to work, even as fatigue pulls at my weary body.
Twisting my hair into a bun, I dive in. I start by sanding the front door just enough so that it no longer sticks, and then oil the hinges, ensuring it swings smooth and silent.
The lightbulbs come next. I climb the rickety ladder and swap out every white bulb for softer ones so that the entire place glows ethereally.
I place a rush order for middle-grade titles, wincing at the expedited shipping cost, then zip-tie the extension cords and adhere them to the baseboards where, hopefully tomorrow, they’ll be concealed by the new rug.
As I work, I think about the night Colt arrived at my house after confronting Travis.
He spared me the details of their altercation, but assured me that Travis was fine, and also that he won’t bother us again.
He also insisted that I tell him everything going forward, and I wondered—though I didn’t say it aloud—whether he’d be around for me to do so.
After finishing the extension cords, I glance at the clock. It’s 2:47 am. My back aches and my eyes burn, but I’ve made progress. If we had two weeks instead of three days, I’d be feeling entirely optimistic right now. But the clock continues ticking faster than my to-do list.
Stretching, I head toward the stairs. There’s one more thing I’d like to knock out since I’m on a roll, but first I want to ensure that Colt is actually sleeping.
Lately, even when he’s not working on the shop, he’s on his phone, either scrolling or typing notes into an app.
What it is he’s doing exactly, I don’t know.
He’s being very secretive for a man who insists on transparency.
The bedroom door creaks when I open it. Moonlight spills across the quilt, and Colt stirs, eyes blinking open in the dark. I cross to the bed and sit on the edge, my hand finding his head.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep. I was just checking on you.”
He’s lying on his side, looking up at me.
His fingers move to my thigh. In the dark, having just woken, his face is open, unguarded.
He searches my expression, and the air in the room suddenly holds a weight it didn’t a moment ago.
Something profound passes between us—years of letters, months of working on a shared goal, learning each other.
Leaning on one another. And days of unanswered questions.
“Why did you run from me, Alice?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “When you first saw me at the Hall?”
My heart flies into my throat. At first, I don’t respond.
Because I thought we’d safely sidestepped this conversation.
But now, here it was, full-bodied and unavoidable.
My hand moves to his cheek, brushing the stubble there.
Inside my veins, my pulse thrums, making me feel flighty.
But there’s no place I’d rather be than here with him.
So I summon my courage, and respond with honesty.
“I sent you a letter a few weeks before you got here,” I admit. “I was scared you’d read it.”
Silence stretches until I can hardly bear it. And then, Colt moves his hand to my wrist, squeezing gently. “I did,” he says. “You sounded upset. You’d never sounded like that before.”
I glance away, embarrassment flooding my face with heat. “You felt sorry for me?”