Page 66 of Melting for the Firefighter
Her lips part.
“You asked me one question. What did I remember most about her?”
Cora’s gaze stays on mine.
“I said her garden. You gave me white roses, rosemary, anda stem of blue delphinium. You wrote remembrance on the card because I did not know what to say.”
The memory has lived inside me for two years.
“You did not ask why a grown man could not order flowers without shaking. You touched my hand and told me grief was love with nowhere to go.”
Tears gather in her eyes.
“I came back the next week and bought flowers I did not need. Then I started driving down Main Street on my way to work even though Pine Road is faster.”
I step closer.
“I knew when you opened. I knew which dress you wore on Thursdays. I knew you left water behind the bakery for the stray cat.”
“You noticed all that?”
“I noticed everything.”
Her breath catches.
“The fire did not make me love you. It scared me enough to stop pretending I didn’t.”
I take another step.
“It gave me an excuse to bring you home. Then you put flowers in my coffee mug, made fun of my eggs, and slept with your hand over my heart.”
My voice turns rough.
“I started making plans for the shop because it matters to you. When the adjuster mentioned the rental, I acted like I wanted you to take it because I thought letting you go first would hurt less than waiting for you to leave.”
“I did not want to leave.”
“I know.”
I open my hand.
The key lies against my palm, the green ribbon still looped through it.
“I do not want this back.”
Cora looks down at it.
“I want your dresses in my closet. I want flowers covering every empty surface. I want your journal beside my bed and your tea next to my coffee.”
I stop close enough to touch her, but keep my hands at my sides.
“I want you there when I wake up.”
A tear slides down her cheek.
“Build your shop. Earn your own money. Stand on your own feet.”
My chest tightens around the words that should have come easily the first time.
