Page 41 of Once Upon a Fall

“The Golden Book of Fairy Tales,” I read aloud.

I hold out a hand for her to give it to me, but instead, she wraps her arms around it, holding it close to her chest.

“This is my most prized possession,” she says. “I’ll give it to you if you promise to take very good care of it.”

“Of course,” I say dryly.

Carefully, she hands the book to me and then sits next to me on the couch. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of vanilla.

I open the book gingerly, careful not to tear any of the fragile pages. The worn binding falls open to Cinderella, with a faded illustration of a pumpkin carriage on one page and the story beginning on the other.

“It was my mom’s,” she says. “She had it when she was a child. My Nana Katherine would read it to her, and then she would read it to us when we were kids. Even Dominic. And someday, I’ll read it to mine.”

I turn the pages, taking in the faded illustrations and the oversized ornate letters at the beginning of each story.

“I knew I wanted to change the rooms when I bought the inn, but nothing I came up with felt right. And then my sister Emma reminded me about the book, and I knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

“Which one was your favorite?” I ask.

“Cinderella,” she says, not even taking a moment to think about it.

I should have guessed with how easily the book fell open to it, like it’s been read and reread hundreds of times.

“Why that one?”

She shrugs. “My mom always made it sound like Cinderella’s real magic was that she stayed kind even when things were terrible, and it stuck with me. And also the dress, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I say, even though in a lineup of princesses, I’m not sure I’d know whose dress was whose.

“Did your mom read to you when you were younger?” she asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Never.”

“Oh,” she says.

She leaves it at that. No follow-up with how sad or why not—which I appreciate.

“My grandma did, though. When I’d visit during the summers. She loved to read Charlotte’s Web to me.”

Rosie’s eyes go wide. “That’s a sad book, though.”

“How so?”

She sits up straighter and scoots toward the edge of the couch, like the answer should be obvious. “Charlotte dies.”

“But Wilbur lives, and three of her babies stay with him. That’s a happy ending by all accounts.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The happier ending would have been that she lives.”

“Right. The fairy-tale ending.”

“Exactly,” she says, settling back against the couch.

“My grandma never read me fairy tales, so I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“You were definitely missing out,” she says, her voice teasing. “But she did teach you how to cook.”

“She did,” I reply.