Maisie
. . .
TWENTY-SEVEN
Today is the big day, as in the last day before the Ranch opens. It’s all hands on deck, getting the Ranch as polished as possible for the first round of guests.
I’m a little nervous to see the dynamic of the Ranch change, the peaceful nights turned to chaos.
Both are good; God knows I could use more company to keep my head from wandering.
I won’t lie and say I’ll for sure miss the quiet mornings before getting the chores done, or the slow nights out on the dock, the music of wildlife all around me, to write into the night.
I know it’s all going to change come tomorrow.
I’m a girl who loves her routine, but I’ve also been feeding off Roxy’s excitement.
I can’t believe I’ve already been here for a month.
It feels like just yesterday I was boarding that last minute flight with Evie strapped to my chest. At the same time, it feels like this is where I was meant to be all along.
Roxy is in her element, all jittery with opening day excitement. She lives for the Ranch and her excursions. My Uncle Walter is just here for the ride, retiring his Ranch working boots and passing them along to his wife. This is what she was meant to be doing.
I’ve yet to see Grayson today. I’m sure he’s off preparing. There are all kinds of inspections that have to be passed before we can open tomorrow.
Grayson, the man of the fucking hour and all my thoughts.
We’ve come to a truce of sorts. We get along great while working, but there’s still something between us holding me back.
I don’t miss the way he looks at me, the way his eyes track me no matter where I am on the Ranch.
He’s like a ghost—I feel him everywhere.
He even bought me a new bandana to use while in the barn.
Honey orange, to match your eyes, he had said.
Dang ovaries are always acting up when he’s around, doing sweet gestures like that. We are getting closer each day, and the sexual tension between us should be studied at this point. If he isn’t pissing me off, he’s making me want to climb him like a tree.
It seems, in this case, it’s true: the boys who torment you are the ones who want you the most. Grayson and I are like fire when we are together, but, sometimes, that flame burns too hot, and I’m scared it's going to burn us both in the end.
My hands get lost weaving the freshly picked lupine flowers from the field by the zipline. Roxy and I decided we wanted to decorate the Foxy Roxy Ranch sign at the entrance.
“That looks lovely, dear,” Roxy chirps, weaving her own across the kitchen table.
My cheeks heat under her praise. Even if it’s something so simple, it feels good to be told you’re doing something right. God knows my agent, Pam, could take a page out of Roxy’s book.
“Yours too! These will look so cute on the sign. Who knew I loved weaving flowers so much?” I tease.
Her lip ticks up, her face looking lost in a memory. “You remind me so much of your mother in moments like this. We used to weave flower crowns for each other when we were little.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of my mother. Losing her at such a young age, I don’t remember very much about her. Soon, I’ll be older than she was in my last memory of her. I haven’t wrapped my mind around that yet.
“Tell me about her.” My voice is quiet.
Roxy, on the other hand, beams to talk about her late sister. “You’re the spitting image of her. She would be so proud of you. You know she used to write too?”
A warm tingling begins in my tummy. I rest my chin on my knuckles. “Really? I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t surprise me. She was always so creative.”
I smile at the memories. My mother would always come up with stuff to keep us entertained, like making forts or cutting paper snowflakes. I think that’s part of why I pursued writing: not wanting to let the imagination my mother ingrained in me die along with her.
Roxy’s chair screeches against the hardwood floor.
“You know what? I think I have some of her work stashed away. She was always writing letters for you kids to open later. It’s almost as if she knew.
” She sighs and disappears into a closet, returning with a box as big as her squeezed in her arms. “Here we are.”
I shove off my chair, wanting to be as close as possible to these forgotten pieces of my mother. Roxy places the box on the table between us. Inside are stacks on stacks of old letters and journals.
“These are all hers?” I murmur and pluck up the first letter.
She nods. “I honestly forgot these were in here, or I would have given them to you sooner. I found these in her closet when we packed up the house years ago.”
I’m brought back to that fateful night. One would think it would be a blur, lost to my young, broken memories, but it’s the opposite.
I remember every vivid detail of that day.
The wreck. The sickening silence that followed.
The sterile hospital room, all alone and scared at the ripe age of eight.
Eventually, they moved Oakland into my room, and we’ve been trauma-bonded ever since.
We were always close, but, after that night, there was something that changed between us.
The social worker came next. Fuck, she was a bitch. She tried to pretend she was there to help us, but I saw the pitying looks, the way her Botox-filled cheeks didn’t even move when she smiled and told us everything was going to be okay.
She lied.
I still remember the smells, the sounds, all of it. It will forever live in my darkest nightmares. But finding things like this, new pieces of my mom to discover, helps ease the pain. Seeing letters like this brings back the happy memories, the happiness that pangs against my heart.
The paper trembles in my hand as I read the outside of the envelope. Maisie Rae is handwritten in cursive script across the front in my mom’s handwriting. I could never forget the way she swooped her cursive S, as if dancing across the paper.
I gently rip the seal open, pulling the letter out.
Maisie,
My sweet Archie, if you’re reading this, that means it’s your wedding day.
I’ve dreamt about this day since first laying eyes on you, nervous for the day I had to release you and let you fly off on your own.
You’re only just seven as I write this, but, as I watch the flames stoking our chimney reflected in your honey eyes, I can picture so clearly the fiery love in store for you and wanted to share my two cents, as your father’s love has never failed me.
If I could envision you with any man, he would be one who challenges you each day but also cherishes the rarity you are. A man who isn’t afraid to show you the love you deserve, someone to match that fire burning brightly inside you and add fuel to burn it brighter. Two flames fused as one.
I don’t wish an easy love on you. Those aren’t the ones worth fighting for. I want an epic love story for you, the ones you used to dream up playing house in the front room. The knight to your princess, guarding your heart with his dying breath.
If I know anything about my daughter, I know, without a doubt, that man you are about to walk down the aisle to is all these things and more. He ticks off every box you deserve and the ones you didn’t know you needed.
I know a girl as special as you found her way to her prince charming, and now, it’s his turn to guard your heart.
I hope you know you will always be my little girl, even with a million miles between us.
There is no entity strong enough to break the bond of a mother and daughter, and the love I have for you will always burn as the brightest flame of them all.
To my little ray of sunshine, may today be the most special day yet.
I know you will make the most beautiful bride.
With all my love and many letters to come,
-Mommy
The first tear hits the page before I’ve read the final words. Even in death, she finds ways to guide me in life.
Archie. I miss hearing my nickname. Her little Monarch butterfly, she would say, Archie for short, with eyes as unique as the wings on their backs, one dipped in honey and the other rich as the flames in my soul.
I’ve thought about what my wedding day would look a million times, the empty chairs, the missed dances, but finding this letter has instilled a hope in me long forgotten. One filled with lost love, and words of wisdom.
I no longer have to guess what she would have thought, what she would have said to me.
It’s all here in this letter. The marriage she envisioned for me, the one I want so badly.
Losing her, them, in a way had me losing sight of love in general.
I think, in a way, I was scared to add anyone to my list of love for fear they would disappear too.
You can’t lose something you haven’t found.
But what if I’ve already latched on to something that has renewed that lost hope of love for me? What if he’s the man my mom described for me all those years ago, before even knowing him?
This feels like a sign. One sent straight from my mother as a reminder that time is fragile, moments are fleeting, and love is a currency worth investing in.
I return the letter to the envelope. There are so many letters inside, new little pieces of her left to discover.
Roxy gives me a comforting smile. “These are all for you. She would have wanted you to have them. She loved you so much.”
Another tear escapes, and I scoop it up with my finger, blinking away the rest. “Thank you, Roxy. This means more than you’ll ever know. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
She scoops me into a bear hug. “Nonsense. These letters were for you. I was just keeping them safe in the meantime. This hug and having you here is payment enough.”
I laugh into her chest, feeling a little lighter than when I walked onto this quiet ranch all those weeks ago.
“Roxy?” I squeak, just now realizing something. “Exactly how booked out is the ranch this summer?”
“About that,” she replies, her voice weary, as if not trying to spook a stray cat. “We need to find you a new home, dear.”
Research Notes: a cowboy’s love can be scary but can also restore your belief in it.