I shoot her a quick reply and include all the turkey and pie emojis I can fit. Jordan’s words are few, but they’re real. For now, that’s enough.
Nikki and I stop at a cart and order three spiced chai lattes. I treat her since she drove, then we head across the street where my grandmother waits at a table on the patio of a crepe shop.
“Thank you, dears,” she says as she takes her cup. Her gloved hands tremble but still when she rests them on her knees. “This is my favorite time of year. I love the fall festival. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Nikki squeezes her arm. “I’ve been so excited to meet you, Mrs. King.”
“Please, call me Vivi. Or even Mee-Maw, if you like. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family now.”
Anyone else might be put off by Mee-Maw’s immediate outpouring of love. But not Nikki. “All right, Mee-Maw. I guess this means I’ll need to introduce you to Nigel soon. The fall festival is his favorite too. You two would get along nicely, I think.” She blushes. “Speaking of which, I promised to meet up with him. See you both later?”
Mee-Maw and I both nod. We watch my unlikely best friend wrap a scarf around her neck and round a corner in her high-heeled designer boots.
“Nice girl,” Mee-Maw says after a steadied sip of her chai. “I’m glad you’re friends.”
“So am I.” A glance down at my flat but cozy UGG knockoffs stirs new emotions. I contrast Nikki in so many ways on the outside. In another life, another world, I never would have been friends with her. Or rather, I never would have believed she wanted to be friends with me.
If I hadn’t been so quick to judge others before they had a chance to judge me, some things may have turned out differently. On the inside, Nikki and I aren’t so opposite. Inside we’re two human souls who value friendship. Authenticity. Love.
“I was horrible to you last year, Mee-Maw.” Each wave of emotion ripples into a new one. All at once I can’t stop from speaking what’s weighed heavily on my heart since Hope died. “I’m sorry. I saw you as a villain when all you tried to do was help me survive.”
“You don’t worry about me.” My grandmother winks, as is her way. “I’m no worse for the wear. I wouldn’t have brought you here unless I was ready to face everything with you, Brooke. Sometimes you have to swim through a bit of darkness . . .”
“If you’re ever going to surface in the light.” I finish her coined phrase that belongs on a mug and sip my chai, careful not to let it burn my tongue. “How are you liking Ocean Gardens? You’ve been there almost a year now.”
She shrugs. “Well, it’s no beachfront cottage, but I can still see the ocean from my window.” Mee-Maw pats my hand.
I cover it with my own and hold tight.
Her forehead wrinkles soften as she gazes out over the busy street. She looks older, weathered, more fragile than the last time I saw her about a month ago. Did a time truly exist when I didn’t want to be anywhere near her? A time when everything seemed black or white or stained in shades of gray?
A leaf flutters to my lap. I examine its gradient hues—a sunset of oranges, yellows, and reds bursting between each vein. Winter nears and colder days lie ahead. The world will dull, and the days will seem bleak. But I won’t forget the warmth of summer.
And if I do?
Then Nikki will tell me about her latest date with Grim, or Mee-Maw will call to gush about the strapping young physical therapist she insists has a crush on her. I’ll have those I love to remind me that even the slightest bit of good holds more weight than any of the bad.
My drink warms my throat. Soothes my anxiety. Maybe it will never fully go away, but I am learning how to face it. Finding new ways to cope every day. Things do get better. And sometimes they get worse. But that’s okay. One day at a time is all anyone can be expected to give.
“Shall we walk?” Mee-Maw asks.
I want to tell her she’s already walked me through so much and I’d rather sit here and enjoy her presence as long as I can. I know there’s a day all too soon when she’ll leave me behind. But I also know she will have spent every last twinkle in her eye loving me. Real love. The kind that heals even the deepest wounds.
So I say, “We shall,” and I link my arm with hers.
We bask in the atmosphere of the beachside town I’ve grown to love. Pumpkin wreaths, leaf garlands, and paper turkeys with pilgrim hats hang from every shop window. The streets burst with life. People from near and far graze the sidewalks, doing some early Christmas shopping or pausing to chat with a familiar face or two or three.
Mee-Maw is one of those familiar faces. We can’t walk a few yards before someone else taps her shoulder, asking about my dad or turning to tell me how much I look like my mom. Mee-Maw gives them the novella instead of the whole novel and we continue on.
“You must have better things to do than hang out with your old grandmother all day.”
I pat her arm. “Not at all.” I mean each word. I’ve wasted too much time away from her already. And I’m making up for it every minute I can.
We move to the next storefront and sweet smells bombard my senses. A candy shop owner passes out goody bags filled with candy corn and business cards and coupons. Hand-dipped caramel apples line display tables and local artists create caricatures on the next corner. Face painters, acrobats, street dancers, and musicians have all come to celebrate. Summer of Lights comes to mind.
Part of me wishes it didn’t.
My heart squeezes. I allow myself to think of Merrick and how he helped me believe in after. The more days that pass since the last time I saw him, the more I wonder . . . do I need to let him go?
Mee-Maw’s walk slows as we pass an Italian restaurant. I can almost taste the meatballs and four-cheese lasagna and tiramisu. But Mee-Maw doesn’t appear to be thinking about food. She peers down a brick alleyway lined with ivy and vine. “Goodness, I haven’t seen this place in ages. I’d almost forgotten it was here.” She releases my arm and ambles down the narrow path.
When we reach the end, a hidden garden surrounds us, a paved brick path curving toward a quaint-looking shop that appears to have once been a cottage. A few easels out front display magnificent paintings depicting the most beautiful settings. Landscapes and sunsets and valleys and oceans. Beyond the windows waits a small art gallery, colors bursting to life, singing a melody of their own.
My heart swells. Today is a color-song day. I couldn’t ask for more.
Out of the shop walks a woman with strawberry hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Even if I hadn’t seen her at the funeral, I would know her in an instant.
She’s the spitting image of Hope and my lids brim with tears.
The woman doesn’t notice us at first. She’s too busy watering the golden poppies in the window boxes. The way the light hits her hair just so and the manner in which her blouse rests across her delicate shoulders makes her fit perfectly within this scene. She is as timeless as the paintings on display.
I step close enough to smell her perfume. As floral as her surroundings.
She doesn’t startle when she notices me. She straightens and smiles.
“You’re Amaya and Merrick’s mom,” I say without pretense.
“I am.” Why doesn’t she seem surprised to see me?
“I’m Brooke. Hope—Amaya—and I were at Fathoms Ranch together.” Did she know Hope was at Fathoms? She must have, right?
“Yes. I saw y’all at my daughter’s funeral,” the woman says, southern accent subtle but present all the same. “I’m Lyn.”