Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
L ight peeked around the edges of the curtains on Rose’s bedroom window. She lay on her side. Her eyes felt worn and dry. Too many tears. Her throat carried a lingering soreness for the same reason.
She sat up.
The papers she’d studied into the early morning hours still lay on her bed, along with their truths.
Beside her pillow sat the wrapped box she’d yet to open.
The letter, the truth of her birth, was enough.
She couldn’t deal with more shocking news.
She slipped the box beneath the journals in her nightstand.
Rose got out of bed and swapped her sleep tee for jeans and a clean shirt.
Unsure of the outside temperature, she reached for her dark green cable-knit sweater.
This time of year, layers were a wise choice.
The soft cotton sweater felt right as she slipped it over her head.
After a visit to the bathroom and a glass of water, she gathered her hair with a scrunchie, then shoved the papers back into their envelope and into her messenger bag.
Morning walks had been absent from her schedule these past days. Fresh air would refresh her mind, maybe clear her lungs of any lingering dust from last night’s disaster. A damn good coffee would also help.
She stepped outside her room. The guest room door remained closed. Hopefully, Willow still slept. She’d been just as wrung out. Yesterday had been—yesterday. Difficult, but they’d made it through.
The couch was empty; the blankets Thorne used sat folded on one cushion. A note lay on the kitchen counter. He’d gone for a run. She scribbled her own gone for a walk beneath his words, her R below it.
The trails would be muddy. She shoved her feet into her peony rain boots. Then grabbed a crocheted scarf from the basket by the door. Its softness comforted. She stepped outside, easing the cottage screen door closed to prevent its usual rattle.
Rose entered the woods that wound round and beyond the Everson estate. She needed the subtle snap of autumn, the scent of the forest, and its sounds of stirring life. This was her equivalent of Magnolia’s precious rose garden, the place most likely to give her peace after all of yesterday.
Her boots were quiet on the trail. The fallen wet leaves cushioned her steps. Images tapped the edges of her mind, each one a memory of Magnolia. She tried to ignore them. Hadn’t she cried enough?
Narrow streams of light shot through the branches above her as the sun climbed a little higher. An illusion of fog teased from the depths of the forest. The scent of damp tree bark and wet leaves surrounded her.
She thought of the words inside her bag. Why hadn’t Magnolia told her the truth? It didn’t matter that she read the letter, knew her answer. Her heart hurt. Magnolia’s explanation left something amiss inside her.
A branch snapped close by. She froze, then spun and waited.
Only silence followed. Not even a slight breeze shook the surrounding loose leaves.
She startled once more when she heard the scramble of squirrels up the bark of a pine tree.
The chattering argument between them encouraged her to let out a breath.
Despite her relief, a chill shuddered through her, a reminder of Magnolia’s other words, about a menace amongst the trees, her cautionary warning in the hospital. She gathered the ends of her scarf and tucked them snug around her neck. It didn’t make her feel better.
She walked until she came to a fork in the path.
The path to the right was neglected and overgrown with thorny vines and poison ivy. Sadness filled her at the sight. The number of times she’d traveled that fork as a child and teenager to see Finn. Those days were gone.
Rose took the left path, avoiding its fresh puddles.
Within minutes, sounds of car engines reached her ears.
As the trees thinned, she could see a line of cars to her left, bumper to bumper.
She never came into town this early, but she knew from Broome that this was Evers Hollow’s version of morning rush hour, an entire eight blocks’ worth.
The path divided again. Straight on, the woods continued north a few miles. She turned left and took the first crosswalk across Ash Street. A right turn and a slight left led her inside a little coffee house she’d discovered when she’d moved back.
Firebrew.
No one would look for her here.
The hand-painted mural of a dark green dragon over the coffee counter drew her gaze. A burst of flames came out of its mouth as it curled its claws around a mug of coffee, its horde of beans nearby. Warmth misted through her as if the dragon itself caressed her with its fictional breath.
The owners, Shirley and Molly, both dressed in jeans and dragon logo’d black tees, waved at her from behind the counter.
Mother and daughter, both had blemish-free golden skin and black hair.
Shirley kept hers short while Molly kept hers shoulder length, embracing its tendency to curl with attitude.
Both were busy taking and completing orders for a line of suited professionals. Each person waiting looked to be a copy of one another. Only their hair and skin color varied. Rose recognized no one. To her, that meant anonymity and no prying questions.
She stepped behind the last person and waited to place her drink order.
“Want anything out of the case?” Molly asked as she pressed the screen of an iPad. “Mom is working on some new recipes. She needs customer opinions.”
At the mention of food, her insides gave a tiny rumble. She’d barely touched the catered dinner the night before.
The glass case beside the register offered choices—some with glaze, some with streusel topping. “The lemon-blueberry muffin.” She couldn’t resist its streusel topping.
“Excellent choice—one of my new favorites.” Molly told Rose her total.
She used her debit card.
“It’ll be a few minutes,” said the younger woman. “Mom’s got a few ahead of yours.”
The sitting area was near empty. Rose chose a seat in her favorite cozy corner, away from the windows. A fire burned in the old stone fireplace. She loosened her scarf and curled her sweater sleeves around her fingers.
Molly brought her order over. She seemed to hesitate a moment, but set the muffin and steaming mug down, then returned to the counter. A new line of Asheville commuters waited to place orders.
Warmth from the hot mocha stole into her fingers as Rose wrapped them around the burgundy mug. She inhaled the scent of espresso and chocolate before taking a sip. The flavor was a desperately needed hug. She drank more. Liquid warmth filled the chilled spaces inside her.
She broke open the large muffin, warm on her fingers. Taking small bites, she glanced at her messenger bag. Another line of customers arrived and disappeared. Only two remained.
Rose looked around the seating area. Privacy rarely existed in Evers Hollow. A couple of men conferred at a nearby table over their laptops.
With a deep, decisive breath, she pulled the manila envelope out of her bag. She opened the flap and pulled its contents out. She turned her body to shield the papers while she read through them again. Each sentence remained as it had last night.
Magnolia Eleanor Everson-Brooks was still her birth mother. Not that she’d doubted what she’d read last night. But seeing it again cemented it.
She’d always loved Magnolia. Whether as grandmother or mother, none of that would change. She’d come to that realization as she lay in the dark, digesting what she’d learned.
Was this the reason behind Magnolia’s preference that Rose call her by her given name instead of Grandmother?
It sounds pretty when you say it. Like flowers are flying out of your mouth.
As a child, she’d thought that silly. Since it made her smile, Rose stuck to Magnolia and rarely called her Grandmother.
All of them were told to call her one of the two, nothing else.
The others called her Grandmother, except for Thorne, who went back and forth between the two, depending on his mood.
Emotion threatened again. She wished she could stop, take a break from her thoughts over what she’d learned.
She moved to slip her birth and adoption certificates back inside the envelope.
Something prevented her from doing so. Reaching her hand in, she pulled out a flat hand-sized parcel, the one Finn had given her at the hospital.
With all that had happened, she’d forgotten.
She unwrapped it and found a stack of photos.
All of her and Finn. From childhood to eighth grade graduation, all taken by his mom.
She smiled at the first picture. She’d wished for a distraction.
This was certainly that. Her fingers flipped photo after photo, studying each one as memories assailed her.
He’d been the best part of her childhood.
The scrape of a nearby chair made her look up. The two men were leaving. Rose tucked the photos back in their envelope and stuffed everything back into her bag.
Molly wiped the abandoned table. Then she came over.
With a visible swallow and glassy eyes, she said, “Mom and I. We’re real sorry about Ms. Magnolia. She was one of our favorites.”
Favorites?
“Magnolia? You knew her?” A potentially stupid question. Most townsfolk knew Magnolia. She’d been heavily involved in the community. But how did these two know Magnolia? She wasn’t one to frequent coffee houses.
A gentle smile touched Molly’s lips. “We knew her.”
Rose straightened and looked around the space: its dragon decor, its cozy setting, the chalkboard menu behind the register. The inside looked rugged, cabin-like, not at all what she’d associate with the woman she’d previously known as her grandmother.
“Did she come here?”
Molly put a hand on one hip. Her smile broadened. “Like clockwork. Every Tuesday, sometimes with your oldest brother.”