Chapter 12 #2
For five days, I’ve managed the drop-off and pickup routine without a direct encounter, calculating timing and quick exits, but the weight of Carson’s presence within these walls pricks at my awareness even when he’s nowhere in sight.
“Big place,” Emily comments, squinting at the flagpole where the state flag snaps in the breeze.
“The inside is like a maze.” I gesture toward the building. “Thank goodness the second graders are near the entrance.”
The bell rings inside the building, its muffled peal sending a ripple of anticipation through the waiting parents, and conversations pause as everyone turns toward the double doors.
“Here they come,” I murmur as the doors burst open.
Children pour from the building in waves of color and noise, backpacks bouncing, lunch boxes swinging, and voices calling out in farewell. I scan the crowd for Quinn, my height an advantage as I search for her purple backpack.
“There.” Emily points toward the left side of the steps.
Quinn appears in the doorway, Sprinkles at her side. Her head turns as she searches the crowd, and when she spots us, her whole face transforms. Pure joy radiates from her as she breaks into a run, Sprinkles keeping pace beside her.
“Ms. Emily!” Quinn’s shriek of delight carries across the schoolyard. “Mr. Leif!”
Quinn reaches us in a blur of motion, but instead of crashing into me as expected, she flings herself at Emily. Her small arms wrap around Emily’s waist in a tight embrace.
“You came! You came!” Quinn bounces on her toes, face tilted up toward Emily with unfiltered delight. “I told Jamie, my friend, that I knew the person who built my home, but she didn’t believe me, but you’re here!”
Emily’s hand comes to rest on Quinn’s shoulder with natural ease. “When I heard you had earned a trip to the bookstore, there’s no way I could miss out on your little adventure.”
Quinn beams as she turns to include me in her excitement. “Mr. Leif! We have frog eggs in the science room. Ms. Peterson says they’ll hatch and become little frogs by the end of the school year!”
I crouch to her level, accepting her quick hug. “That’s exciting. We should search for a book about frogs at the bookstore.”
Sprinkles nudges my hand with his cold nose in greeting, and I scratch behind his ears. “How was your last day, Quinn?”
“Amazing!” She barely pauses for breath. “We learned where everything goes, and we practiced our spelling words, but it wasn’t a test yet, and at lunch, Jamie shared her cookies with me, and in art we made leaf rubbings, and—”
She sucks in air. “And now we get to go to the bookstore!”
Emily listens to this torrent of information with genuine interest. “Leaf prints? What kind of leaves did you use?”
Quinn launches into a detailed explanation of the art project as we begin walking away from the school. Parents and children stream around us, heading toward parked cars and bus stops.
“And Ms. Peterson says next week we’re going to learn about habitats,” Quinn continues as we reach the parking lot.
Without hesitation, she reaches for Emily’s hand, her small fingers curling around Emily’s larger ones with complete trust.
Emily gives Quinn’s hand a gentle squeeze as they wait for a car to pass before we head toward my car. “What kind of habitats?”
“Forests and oceans and deserts. I hope we learn about tide pools. That’s where all the best creatures live.”
Quinn swings her arm with Emily’s as we head toward my car, and continues talking after I buckle her into the booster seat in the back, and we join the line of exiting cars.
“Guess what?” Quinn says, wriggling in her seat. “Jamie can name all the sharks! Even the deep ocean ones with the light-up parts! She has a book with pictures. She said she’d show me on Monday.”
“Sounds like you made a friend,” I say, happy at this development.
Quinn bounces with excitement. “She sits next to me at lunch. She has a sister in third grade and a cat named Bagel.”
Emily laughs. “Bagel is an excellent name for a cat.”
“That’s what I said!” Quinn squeals. “And she invited me to her birthday party next month, and Uncle Blake said I can go if they let me bring Sprinkles, because crowds are scary.”
My heart swells at this evidence of Quinn’s social progress.
“You’ll have to introduce Sprinkles to Jamie’s mom and see how it goes,” Emily responds. “Cats and dogs don’t always get along.”
“That’s what Uncle Blake said, even though Sprinkles is well-behaved.”
Quinn continues to chatter, carrying the conversation with minimal input needed from either of the adults in the car, and is still talking when I park at the curb on Harbor Street.
The bookshop sits halfway down the street, its blue awning visible from our parking spot.
Quinn spots it through the windshield and unbuckles her seatbelt.
“Wait for me to come open your door,” I remind her before she can grab for the handle.
I check the street before popping open my door and hurrying around the front of the car. Emily waits until I’m on the sidewalk to climb out, and the second I open Quinn’s door, the little girl bolts for freedom, Sprinkles clambering after her.
Quinn grabs Emily’s hand again, tugging her forward. “I can’t wait to show you my favorite section!”
I hang back, letting them walk ahead of me, Quinn now gesturing wildly while Emily listens.
Quinn turns back, waving for me to catch up. “Come on, Mr. Leif! We need to get there before they close the reading corner!”
I lengthen my stride to join them, falling into step beside Emily as Quinn darts ahead, Sprinkles staying at her side.
“She’s never this animated after school,” I murmur to Emily. “Usually she’s drained from the social effort.”
Emily smiles, and once again, I’m reminded of what a beautiful woman she is. “Quinn knows she’s safe with you.”
“With us,” I correct before I can overthink the implications. “She’s safe with us.”
Emily turns toward me with a flash of emotion there and gone too quickly to name. Before she can answer, Quinn calls from the bookstore entrance, palms pressed flat on the glass.
“Hurry up, slowpokes! The books are waiting!”
Emily’s lips curve upward. “Can’t keep the books waiting.”
The bell above the door chimes as we enter Pinecrest Books, releasing the scent of paper, coffee, and wood polish. Quinn dashes toward the children’s section, Sprinkles maintaining perfect heel position despite her excited pace.
Warm lighting from copper fixtures brightens the store, while ceiling-high bookshelves create miniature rooms throughout the space. Quiet conversations buzz beneath the classical music piped in through the speakers.
Emily pauses beside me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she tracks Quinn’s path through the store.
“This is her version of heaven,” I tell Emily. “The cart at Saturday Market is fun, but this is where the true treasures can be found.”
Emily chuckles. “How many books is she allowed today?”
“Two,” I answer. “Plus one educational book, which doesn’t count against her total.”
Quinn waves from between two tall shelves. “Ms. Emily! Come see!”
“Duty calls.” Emily jogs ahead to join Quinn.
I hang back, pretending to examine a display of local history books while watching their interaction.
Emily crouches beside Quinn, bringing herself to the child’s level as Quinn pulls colorful volumes from the shelves.
Their heads bend together over open pages, Quinn’s small finger tracing illustrations while Emily listens with complete attention.
“This one has a reptile that can change colors,” Quinn explains.
Emily examines the page. “It would be fun to be able to change colors.”
“I would be one color of the rainbow for each day of the week.” Quinn flips through more pages. “What kind of books did you like when you were little?”
“Horse stories,” Emily admits. “I read every Black Stallion book I could find.”
“Did you have a real horse?”
“No, but I used to have a toy horse.”
Quinn gasps with delight at this revelation. “Do you still have it?”
“No,” Emily admits with a sadness that leaves me wondering how much she lost when her parents passed away. “But I’ve carved several horses over the years.”
Quinn gasps with delight. “If you bring one of your horses, we can play knight and dragon!”
As they interact, the tension I carry eases, replaced by an unexpected tenderness. After finding out she grew up in foster care, I hadn’t pictured her as a girl with plastic horses, and my heart squeezes at the mismatch.
Emily helps Quinn narrow down her choices until she has three fiction and one science book clutched in her arms.
When Quinn hesitates between the three fiction books, Emily suggests, “Try reading the first page of each. Sometimes the writing style helps you decide.”
“That’s what Mr. Leif says, too!” Quinn bounces on her toes. “He says the first page is like meeting a new friend.”
Pride warms my face at this proof that Quinn listens to my reading advice. I move closer, drawn into their orbit as Quinn settles on a dragon adventure, a book about a girl with a service dog, and a non-fiction book about frogs.
“Excellent selections,” I tell her as she hugs the books. “Ready to check out and head home?”
Quinn shakes her head. “Can we go to Stitch & Yarn first? It’s right next door, and I want to show Ms. Emily the sparkly yarn.”
Emily raises an eyebrow at me. “Sparkly yarn?”
“It has tiny threads that shine like stars,” Quinn explains before I can answer. “Uncle Blake says I have expensive taste.”
I laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”
After paying for Quinn’s books, we exit to the sidewalk and walk the few steps to the adjacent storefront.
Stitch & Yarn occupies a converted Victorian house, its rooms transformed into specialized sections for different crafts.
The bell jingles as we enter, and the scent of wool and lanolin envelops us.
Quinn beelines for the wall of colorful yarn at the back of the store.
Emily follows, her fingers trailing along skeins as she passes, testing textures with an expert’s touch. I hadn’t considered that Emily might be familiar with fiber crafts, though she did mention learning to crochet during our woodworking sessions.
“Look!” Quinn points to a display of bulky yarn in jewel tones, some with delicate metallic strands woven through. “Isn’t it pretty?”
Emily lifts a skein of deep teal with silver threads. “Very pretty.”
“Could you crochet me a scarf?” Quinn asks, giving Emily her best puppy eyes. “And a hat? For winter? With the sparkly parts?”
I step forward, embarrassed by her direct request. “Quinn, we don’t ask people for presents. That’s presumptuous.”
“What’s pre-sump-tu-ous?” she sounds out the word carefully.
“It means assuming someone wants to spend their time and resources crocheting you a gift,” I explain.
Emily shakes her head in amusement. “It’s not presumptuous when I’ve been needing an excuse to use this particular yarn.”
She selects a skein of royal purple with iridescent threads and holds it next to Quinn’s face. “This would bring out the amber in your eyes.”
Quinn’s face lights up. “Purple is my favorite!”
“It must be destiny.” Emily places the yarn in Quinn’s hands. “Feel how soft it is? That’s merino wool. No itching.”
Quinn runs her small fingers over the skein with reverence. “It’s like clouds.”
A mixture of emotions rises within me that I can’t untangle. Emily’s ease with Quinn, her willingness to engage with a child’s enthusiasm without condescension, and the way she remembers details about Quinn’s preferences set off those flutters in my chest again.
It would be too easy to get used to this, which will make it hard to lose if our circumstances change.
Emily turns toward me, the purple yarn still in Quinn’s hands. “Winter’s coming. Do you think Mr. Leif might need a scarf and hat, too? The island gets much colder than the mainland once the winds pick up.”
Quinn gasps at this new responsibility. “Yes! He needs warm things!” She turns to the yarn wall with intense focus. “What color should we choose for Mr. Leif?”
“I don’t need—” I begin.
Emily cuts me off with a gentle hand on my forearm. “Trust me, winters by the water are harsher than you’re expecting. The damp gets into your bones.”
The brief contact of her fingers on my sleeve sends warmth spreading upward, contradicting her words about cold. Quinn has already begun comparing different skeins of yarn, holding them up for Emily’s assessment.
“This blue would match his eyes,” she declares, holding up a periwinkle skein.
Emily considers it. “Excellent color choice. But let’s search for a bit darker color that won’t show dirt as easily.”
They settle into a discussion of wool versus alpaca, color theory, and practical considerations. Sprinkles sits beside Quinn, receiving absentminded pats as she deliberates.
The store fades around me as the moment hits me with unexpected force.
I could build a life that includes this.
The thought is dangerous in its simplicity and the quiet longing it triggers. Not the temporary arrangement I’ve convinced myself is all I can have, not the careful distance I maintain from everyone except Quinn, but something permanent.
Something chosen rather than randomly fled to.
Emily lifts her head, her gray eyes finding mine across the small distance, and a moment of warm understanding passes between us.
Quinn holds up a skein of deep navy blue with subtle hints of teal. “This one. It matches the ocean when the sun is setting.”
“Perfect choice.”
Quinn cradles the yarn, her face solemn with the importance of her selection. “Now Mr. Leif will be warm all winter.”
The simple declaration, the certainty I’ll still be here when winter deepens, then when spring returns, hits me with unexpected force. I’ve been so careful not to plan beyond the immediate future.
Yet here Quinn is, planning for my warmth months from now, and Emily is agreeing to spend time crocheting a gift for me.
“Thank you,” I manage to get past the lump forming in my throat. “That’s very thoughtful.”
Emily’s expression softens. “It’s a pleasure.”
Quinn beams up at us both, clutching her yarn selections. “Can we get hot chocolate now?”
“Excellent idea,” Emily agrees, guiding Quinn toward the register. “Hot chocolate is perfect after book shopping.”
They move ahead of me, Quinn chattering about marshmallows and whipped cream, while I trail behind, my mind racing.
For the first time since fleeing Westbrook, I find myself planning for more than escape, fully aware of what it might cost me.