22. Neesha
NEESHA
A s I pull into the Maple Falls Assisted Living Center parking lot, the scent of maple and cinnamon wafts from the cupcakes I made last night. I’ve been here dozens of times, usually with Emmy, but never when I’ve been at a crossroads like this.
After I set aside the grant application yesterday, I reached for my phone, sending a text message to Mimi Roberts to ask if I could talk with her this morning.
Right now, I feel the loss of my mother more than ever, and Mimi is one of the few people who knew her well.
Mimi’s reply came almost immediately: Come at 9:00. Bring cupcakes.
As I pick up the box of maple pecan cupcakes, I already know where Mimi will be this morning.
The garden courtyard, with its dappled sunlight on the rust-colored and ruby-red mums, is like stepping into a private sanctuary away from the rest of the world.
A little fountain bubbles in the corner and a few golden leaves dot the ground, reminding me of the change that’s inevitable—the last of the glorious, golden days before the frost settles permanently and snow covers the pumpkins.
Even though there’s an autumn chill in the air, Mimi only wears a light jacket, her silver hair gleaming in the morning light.
She’s repotting plants on a small table before winter hits, preparing them for a sunny window in her room.
She glances up as soon as I step into the courtyard, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Perfect timing, Neesha. I see you brought my request.”
I set the box on the table and pop open the lid. “Mom’s recipe,” I confirm. “Speaking of perfect timing, baking was the therapy I didn’t know I needed last night.”
“Ah, another late-night baking session.” Mimi nods knowingly. “You must have something on your mind, because your mother did the same thing. Whenever she had a problem, she’d either bake or paint late into the night.”
I’d always known Mom painted, but discovering it was her way of processing life makes my heart squeeze with familiar grief. “What? When?”
Mimi thinks for a moment, setting down her garden trowel. “She painted her biggest canvas on the day she found out she was pregnant with you.”
“I never heard that story.” I sit down next to her on the bench.
Mimi selects a cupcake from the box, peeling the wrapper methodically. “Before you were born, your mother was offered a position in an art gallery in San Francisco. Her paintings were starting to sell locally, and the gallery owner became a fan after seeing her paintings in Falling for Books.”
“Wait.” I stare at her, stunned. “Mom had paintings hanging in the bookstore where I work now?”
“Only a few, when it was run by the original owners. Visitors would come through the town and buy them.”
“So why did Mom turn down San Francisco? That sounds like a dream job.”
“It was,” Mimi confirms. “But dreams change, Neesha. They evolve as we do.”
“She turned it down because of me? ”
Mimi shakes her head. “Your mother had already decided before she found out about you. She realized that what she really wanted wasn’t success, she wanted contentment.
She didn’t want to find her meaning in the art world, based on whether people approved of her work.
She wanted connection and community. You know—” Mimi gestures to the plant in front of her, the root ball wrapped tightly around the compacted dirt. “—roots.”
Mom had a whole other life before me? I let that sink in, trying to piece together this version of my mother with the one I knew. She never told me about the gallery offer or that her art was anything more than a weekend hobby. Maybe that’s because it hadn’t mattered anymore.
The only stories I’d heard were how she and Dad met, and how he left when I was three because he decided he didn’t want to be married or have a family. He chose freedom; she chose roots. They couldn’t have been more different, but Mom never regretted her choice.
After that, Mom got her insurance job and we moved away for a while. We only came back because of the situation with Mom’s client, but she was relieved to be home. Maple Falls was always where she belonged.
“How did she know she was making the right choice?”
“She didn’t,” Mimi says, nibbling at her cupcake.
“No one ever does. We make the best decisions we can in the moment, learning to find our happiness inside the life we’ve already chosen.
” She stops and then pats my hand. “But that’s not why you came today, is it?
You don’t want to listen to an old woman ramble about the past.”
“No, I actually do.” She’s offering a glimpse into the choices my mother never talked about—the things that mattered, and ultimately, shaped her life.
“Why did you text me so late last night?” Mimi asks.
“Well, I have an opportunity to rent a space in Seattle for a cupcake shop. It’s the perfect spot. ”
“And yet you’re sitting in an old woman’s garden instead of calling the realtor?” Mimi observes with a raised eyebrow.
“There are…” I pause, not wanting to go into details. “Complications.”
“Tall, handsome complications?” She winks at me.
“Yes. That, and…money. I could apply for the town grant but?—”
“It would keep you here for two years,” she finishes. “Emmy told me.” She wipes her fingers on a small napkin after she polishes off the cupcake. “Not a small commitment. You’re hesitating over that?”
“If you call hesitating not finishing the application, then yes,” I admit.
Mimi nods thoughtfully. “Ah, I see. And did it have something to do with the man fixing up my home?”
I nod. “Lucian showed up right after Nate stopped by. Nate wanted to get back together again, and it brought up so many painful things. Then Lucian told me…”
Mimi waits patiently, her weathered hands folded, like she has all the time in the world.
“He told me he just knew I was the one,” I say. “Then he left.”
“You mean, he showed you the respect you deserve, confessed his feelings, and left you free to decide if you want the same?” Mimi says it so matter-of-fact, I’m caught off guard.
“When you put it like that…yes. But why does being given a choice feel scarier than having none?”
“Because real love takes trust,” Mimi says, going back to her plant and filling in the dirt.
“When someone actually respects your mind, body, and heart, you realize that’s what love should be.
It’s not about control; it’s about growing alongside someone, letting them be who they really are.
Sometimes, that means trusting them enough to grow with them. ”
“But I don’t get it. Lucian actually wants me to be happy, even if that means losing me to Seattle. Who does that? Who says, ‘I love you,’ and then gives you permission to break his heart?”
Mimi picks up her trowel and scoops more soil into the planter. “Sounds quite different from Nate.”
“Everything about Lucian is different from Nate,” I say, watching her work. “He’s gentle and thoughtful. Nothing like the typical hockey-player stereotype.”
“You know what I always say—you can’t judge a cupcake by its frosting,” Mimi says. “Some look perfect on the outside but taste like cardboard. Others might be a little rough around the edges, but they’re exactly what you need.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wooden cupcake figurine. “He even carved this for me as a reminder of Mom.”
Mimi smiles, reaching into her jacket pocket, taking out a similar wood carving—a perfect miniature of a home, intricate enough that I recognize it instantly.
“It’s your house,” I say.
“He gave it to me a few weeks after he moved in,” she explains, turning it over in her palm.
“Said he wanted to thank me for letting him live there. Of course, he’s doing a lot of work for me, but every week since, he’s brought me a new one.
” She reaches back into her pocket and pulls out three more carvings—a book, a heart, and what looks like a tiny houseplant.
“He’s been carving these?”
“His grandfather taught him,” Mimi says.
“Said it was a way to slow down and mull things over, because there’s no fast way to create something.
A plain wood block can be whittled into anything, just like our lives.
But it takes time and effort. And in the end, where you start is where you’ll end up. ”
“But what do the figures mean?” I ask, fingering the tiny, carved book.
“I don’t know, but I think he sees you. Not just who you are now, but who you could be. And he’ll take you for as long as you’ll be here, because that’s how much he cares: enough to let you go if that means you’ll be happy. ”
I sit there for a minute, turning the figurines over as Mimi continues re-potting her plant.
“I don’t know what to do, Mimi,” I confess. “Seattle has been the plan for so long, but I care about him. More than I thought possible.”
She stops digging in the dirt to look at me. “The question isn’t Seattle or Maple Falls. It’s what kind of life you want to build. Your mom made her decision, and she never regretted it.”
I nod, blinking back the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I miss her so much sometimes, Mimi.”
“Me too,” Mimi replies, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “But she’s still with you—in your baking, in your determination, in the way you care for others even when you’re hurting. She’d be so proud of the woman you’ve become. And she’d want you to be happy—wherever you choose.”
I shake my head, the tears threatening to spill out. “I don’t know if I know the difference anymore. I feel like I lost my internal compass when I lost Mom.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to find it again. Because you never lost your direction, sweetheart. You just forgot how to listen to your heart.”
I watch a sparrow hop between the potted mums, the distant sounds of the facility coming to life—breakfast trays clinking and voices in the hallway. Mimi looks at the plant in its new pot, the full, lush leaves shining in the light.
“How do you make these plants grow so beautifully?” I ask, watching her pat the soil around the plant’s roots. “The one time I bought a houseplant, I killed it in two weeks. I clearly don’t have the same green thumb you have.”
“I don’t force them to grow,” she says, examining the plant before looking up at me. “I remove what stops them.”
That’s what I’ve been doing wrong. I’ve been so focused on trying to force myself to move forward—to Seattle and a new life—that I never stopped to think about what’s actually holding me back .
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I say more to myself than Mimi. “ I don’t need to force myself to get over my past. I just need to…”
“Remove what’s stopping you,” Mimi finishes gently.
A breeze rustles the leaves on the plant. “I think I’ll finish that grant application this morning.”
“That’s my girl.” Mimi smiles as she brushes the soil from her hands and slowly rises from the bench. “Now, help an old woman back inside. I have a bingo game to play and you have an interview to give.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have an interview.”
“Yes you do,” she says, zipping up her jacket. “You’re meeting with a food critic who’s the daughter of one of our residents here.”
“Wait. Why would I meet with her?” I ask.
“She’s writing an article on our little town,” Mimi explains, acting like this is old news. “I told her I know someone who makes the best cupcakes in the Pacific Northwest. So after you texted me last night, I sent her a message. And she said she could come this morning.”
“This morning?” I freeze, staring at Mimi and not believing my ears. “A food critic—here?” I look around, expecting her to jump out from a hiding spot in the garden.
Mimi shakes her head. “No, dear. She’s coming to the bookstore cafe around eleven to meet you.”
“Mimi!” My jaw drops. “How could you spring this on me? I’m not prepared to meet a food critic.”
She beams as she squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve been preparing your whole life. I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t show up this morning. And take those cupcakes with you to give to her.” She nods toward the box. “You said you need sales, right?”
“Yes, but—” I rise, and Mimi practically bulldozes me toward the exit with surprising speed for an elderly woman.
“No buts except the one I’m about to kick if you don’t get moving,” she says with a teasing note to her voice. “Now go show that critic what Maple Falls is made of. And don’t drop the cupcakes on the way there.”