Oliver frowned. “Are you mad?”
“No, sweetheart. I love you very much.”
“Then why didn’t you open the door?”
Behind them, I saw Becca freeze.
I chose my words with care. “Because grown-ups have to ask before they make plans with someone else’s time.”
Lily’s eyes moved offscreen, probably toward her mother.
“That makes sense,” she said softly.
The call lasted fifteen minutes. I showed them the lanterns, the harbor, the moon rising over the water. They showed me paper snowflakes taped to the motel window and a crooked gingerbread house they had built from vending machine cookies and packets of peanut butter.
It was imperfect.
It was also theirs.
When the call ended, I remained by the lamppost, holding the dark screen.
A message arrived from Garrett a moment later.
That was actually good for them. Hard, but good.
Then another.
I’m sorry, Mom.
I read the words three times.
They did not fix everything.
But they began something.
Back at the inn, the parlor was warm and golden. Guests had gathered for cocoa, and Nora was placing wrapped books beneath the tree for the next morning’s exchange.
As I climbed the stairs, Thomas stepped out of the hallway near the front desk.
“Mrs. Vance?”
I stopped.
He held the green poetry book from the market. “You forgot this.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“No,” he said. “But I think it belongs to you.”
I frowned. “Why would you think that?”
He opened the cover and turned it toward me.
On the inside page, written in familiar handwriting faded to brown, was my husband’s name.
Arthur Vance.
The hallway seemed to tilt.
I reached for the banister.
“That isn’t possible,” I whispered.