Chapter 17
The café was a charming converted farmhouse set back from the road, with a wide wraparound screened-in porch dotted with small tables. It was cozy and warm inside, with mismatched furniture that somehow worked together to create a homey atmosphere, a fireplace crackling in one corner.
They chose a table by a window overlooking a small garden where the last roses and snapdragons of the season shone bright in the golden autumn afternoon sunlight. Their server, a cheerful man with curly brown hair, took their orders and brought steaming mugs of apple cider while they waited.
“This is nice,” Rebecca said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug and breathing in the aroma. She looked up at Cort. “And I’m so happy I found the lampshade. And all that other stuff I didn’t need—but really wanted.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “I didn’t want to say, just in case it was sold, but I was almost sure I had seen that lamp when I was there last. Just waiting for you.”
“Do you go there a lot?”
“It’s probably what got me inspired to focus on restorations rather than just standard renovations in the first place.
I stumbled on it while driving home from a job once, and I was hooked.
” He took a sip of his cider. “It’s something I’ve tried to incorporate into my own work, actually.
Building spaces that don’t just look good but that feel right. That reflect the owner.”
His gaze was long and steady. Then he cleared his throat. “You said earlier, you weren’t unhappy with your life in Toronto. But…can I ask, would you say that you’re actually happy? Because I think that’s important, Becca.”
She thought for a long moment. “It’s funny,” she finally said.
“Bramley Hollow used to feel so small to me, but this year, it was the city that felt small. You can live in a place that has so many people, so many places to go, unique things to do, and just get stuck in the same patterns. And yet, for some reason, being stuck feels worse in the city. Like you should be doing something, all the time. I look out my window here, at the orchards and the fields, and it…it just all feels more real than the city ever could.” She stopped.
“But listen to me, getting all philosophical. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. ”
“I do.” He paused and gave her a long look that was familiar to her. He had been looking at her this way since she was seventeen. Like he understood her completely. So she wasn’t surprised by what he said next. “Losing Lenore was huge. She was more than just a grandmother to you.”
Rebecca found herself letting out what felt like a small sigh of relief. “It’s true,” she said. “It hasn’t been easy, even after a year.”
“I’ve been wondering how this year might change you. I know in the year after the divorce I felt like I was actually in the midst of some kind of a metamorphosis. And I had to give myself the space to experience it. I’m glad I did.”
“A metamorphosis,” she repeated. “That’s apt.
I think I’ve stayed in some sort of a cocoon all year.
I’m just…” She put down her mug. “So stuck. I’ve never been able to admit this to anyone.
Not even Sabrina, really. She’d make a list of a hundred ways to fix it, but it just doesn’t feel that simple. ”
“What if it’s okay to feel like this? What if realizing you’re stuck is the first step to getting unstuck?” Cort said.
She felt a surge of warm comfort, sitting here with him. She had a connection to Cort Adams, she always had. But she had mistaken it for something else too many times.
“You have that thoughtful Becca look again,” he said.
She hesitated. “I need to say something, actually. I know we hit the reset button on this, but I still want to talk about it.”
“Talk about…it? You mean…?”
“After the funeral, yes. I feel like what happened that night is part of the reason I’ve been feeling so stuck. I was a total mess. I can see that now. And I threw myself at you—”
“Becca—”
“No, I need to get this out. What I’m trying to say is that it’s fine. You saw what I haven’t been able to see, all these years I’ve known you.”
His eyes had darkened. They were brooding gray storm clouds now. “What is it you think you’ve missed?”
“We’re meant to be friends,” she said, but she felt a twinge as she did, so she repeated it, her voice even more firm the second time. “Just friends.”
Cort looked down and away from her, picked up his mug, and stared into it instead. He didn’t say anything, so Rebecca kept talking, hoping the more she did, the more right this might feel.
“You always got that. And…” She hesitated. “Right now, I need a friend.” She reached across the table to touch his hand with hers, and stopped. “I don’t ever want to mess things up between us again.”
He was looking down at his hand where she had almost touched him, and for a second she allowed herself to imagine that he had felt it, too. That longing. But no. He hadn’t ever, wasn’t going to, and that was fine.
He looked up from their hands. “Of course, Becca. I’m here.
I’m your friend. Always. You don’t have to worry about that.
I promise.” Then he looked away again, picked up the dessert menu.
“Do you have any room for pie?” His tone was light and she felt so much relief that she was able to ignore the small part of her that felt disappointed, that wanted something more, as she told him that of course she did—she was Lenore McIntosh’s granddaughter, after all.