Chapter 22
The next day, I follow my mom around to the convenience stores to help her make a list of things she needs to get done or hire someone else to do. We’re driving home when we pass the turn that leads to the house Lottie left me.
“Can we stop at the cottage? I forgot something there when I stopped by Tuesday,” I tell my mom.
“Of course, honey,” she replies eagerly. A beat passes and I can somehow hear the cogs in my mom’s brain turning over before she says, “You went to the cottage by yourself?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “Is that surprising?”
“No!” she says, overly cheery like her real answer is yes. “I thought you were feeling some mixed emotions toward it. That’s all.”
“I was. Am, I mean. But Declan looked at it with me, like you suggested, and he even sketched this little blueprint with ideas to spruce it up.”
My mom gasps, delighted. “He did not.”
“He did. Did you know he renovated his own house?”
“No, I did not. But it doesn’t surprise me. That boy is very determined.” She shakes her head in awe.
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, and smile to myself.
After a few pacing steps to search for the crewneck I could have sworn I left here, I give up and look for where my mom has wandered off to.
Through the bedroom’s clear doors, I find her standing in the garden.
She’s brushing her fingers over the lavender heads in the sun’s gentle glow, just like Declan did when I brought him here.
They’re so fluffy, you can’t help but touch them.
There’s a faint smile on her lips. She takes a deep breath, and as she exhales, the lines in her forehead fade. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this at ease. I step through the sliding doors and join her, dancing my fingers lazily over the silky lavender tops.
“Isn’t this gorgeous?” my mom says, closing her eyes to bask in the sun.
“It is,” I reply in a weak voice.
We stand in the garden, letting the warmth drench us for minutes on end without saying a word. And in those few minutes, flashes of what could have been and what is flip through my mind like a roll of film.
Me—what could have been: moving into a tiny New York City apartment. Lottie alive, Declan estranged. Work and work and more work on the horizon.
The film skips.
Me—what could be: moving into a cottage by the sea.
The chasm between Declan and me closed. The bridge: the street between our houses.
Lottie gone, but my mom still here. An old, forgotten dream unearthed and sprouting to life—a book I thought I might never write, about a boy I thought I might never see again.
And somehow, perhaps miraculously, the fragility of my new decision becomes unbreakable inside me.
“Mom?” I interrupt the blissful silence.
“Yes, hon?” She paces through the garden, inspecting each flower and leaf.
“I’m going to tell Ernst and Young to give away my spot. I want to stay here and help you run the convenience stores,” I say in one hurried breath.
She stops mid-step, then looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“I’ll live in this cottage and work on my romance novel in my free time.
And plus, Declan and I might be something again and I want to see that through,” I add.
If there’s anything I know about my mom, it’s that she doesn’t want people to make a big fuss over her.
I need to make her think this is about more than just her. And maybe it really is.
“Huh,” is all she says at first, and my heart starts pounding.
But after a few seconds of contemplation, she walks up to me.
“Con, I want you to answer me as honestly as possible, and I know your tells so don’t even try to lie.
” She points a not-so-intimidating finger in my face.
“Are you sure you want to do this? I need to know you’re not making a rash decision because you’re worried about me. You know I’m always going to be okay.”
I exhale a ragged breath, laughing a little.
“Yes, Mom.” I grab her shoulders and look her in the eye.
“Promise. Most of this decision is entirely selfish. I want to write my book more than I want to breathe air sometimes. And I didn’t think it’d be possible,” I say, my voice cracking. “But Lottie made it possible.”
I blink back full-on tears, and my mom’s eyes well up too.
“She gave us everything. And even in her absence, she’s giving us everything again,” I barely get out.
My mom nods and wipes at her tears, then reaches her hand out to wipe mine.
“I knew I raised you right, con,” she says with a broken smile. She throws her arms around my middle. Her gardenia scent fills me with warmth. But after a second of thinking in her embrace, I laugh into her hair and pull back.
“Hey, wait! What is that supposed to mean? What would you have thought of me if I went to New York?”
She shakes her head with a sweet smile. “I mean, I raised you right because you know what’s important. And sometimes”—she looks back at the cottage Lottie gave me—“circumstances can shift what’s most important.”
A swell of emotion tightens my throat, and I throw my arms back around her.
Lottie’s unexpected passing changed things for us.
And it felt validating to realize that was okay.
Maybe I would have pursued a prestigious job in New York City and lived a more “glamorous life” if she hadn’t passed this year.
But then I wouldn’t have reconciled with Declan, and I wouldn’t have spent all this time with my mom, and the mere thought of completing my first novel never would have crossed my mind.
So much had changed this summer. But as I hugged my mother’s tiny frame, I finally felt the first nudge toward accepting that change. How was it possible that so much good had been born from something so bad? It didn’t feel plausible. Or even acceptable. But maybe it was the truth.