45

Olivia was gone.

Blake trudged back to his truck. Jen still hovered in the open doorway of the Hudson house, arms crossed over her middle to ward off the cold, her face full of pity. She’d just informed him that Olivia had left for Indiana this morning.

While Blake had been descending into Bangor, Olivia had been ascending from Portland. Jen had just gotten back from driving Olivia to the airport a couple hours ago, while Blake had been showering and settling up with the neighbor boy for taking care of Scooby in his absence.

Irony was a cruel, cruel thing.

His cell battery had remained dead at the airport while he’d slept upright in a hard, plastic chair. Mom and Dad had accepted the comp hotel, but Blake chose to stay for a guaranteed spot on the first available flight. He’d gotten Olivia’s text too late.

He drove past where the bakery used to stand, unable to believe it, too, was gone. The morning paper declared it was arson. Whoever was responsible better hope the authorities found them first because if Blake did, it wouldn’t end well.

Jen had no idea if Olivia planned to rebuild, when she’d be back, or if she planned to come back. She did, however, have the address to her mother’s house where she’d be staying, though Blake had to practically beg Jen to share it with him.

He needed to do something to convince Olivia to give him another chance. To prove how committed he was to making their relationship work. He needed to make it and fast, before she spent too much time in Indiana.

Where Justin lived.

Problem was Blake wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t know what made a woman swoon or how to write a love poem. He was capable of buying flowers, of protecting her, holding her, kissing her, but none of those things were enough. He went home and made a fire, all the while praying over what to do.

Scooby sat on his pallet in the corner, spying on him with his head on his paws.

Blake put his hands on his waist. “What would you do if it was your girl?”

Scooby lifted his head and barked. Twice.

“Thanks for the advice, buddy, but I don’t speak canine.” A picture on the mantel caught Blake’s eye. The selfie he and Olivia had taken on her birthday, a mass of harbor seals sunbathing in the background.

And then it clicked. Blake knew exactly how to bring Olivia home.

~*~

All play and no work made Olivia a very lazy woman. Not that she’d been playing. Sending referral letters to her former clients and signing her third of the practice over to her to fellow therapists had kept her busy during the past week. Not including keeping up on the dozens of emails sent back and forth between her and the contractor for the bakery.

Olivia had decided to rebuild. She’d known it all along, actually; she just hadn’t realized it. But after forty-eight hours in the heartland, and she knew this was no longer home. Home was in a small harbor town on the coast of Maine, with its colorful buildings and quirky residents. Home was on a blueberry farm, in an old Victorian house, in the arms of a flannel-wearing farmer.

The town and bakery didn’t have a choice in her homecoming. Blake, however, wasn’t a given. No doubt, he was back from Boston by now. He hadn’t attempted to contact her after she’d told him she was coming home. He was either giving her space or moving on. Her plan was to tie up all her loose ends here and then return to Maine and figure out the rest later.

She stretched out in bed, arching her back for full effect. The two-hour nap had been exactly what she’d needed. Dusk approached, which meant it was nearing five o’clock. The long, long nights of an Indiana winter. Olivia walked in to the living room.

Mom sat up from her lounged position on the couch. “This is interesting. Apparently, our sense of smell is linked to our psyche. Where some scents can indicate euphoria, others can trigger anxiety, depending on the past memory those scents are linked to in our brains.” Mom was watching Dr. Feel, the famous syndicated television network psychologist and best-selling author. He told Olivia’s mother things every day that Olivia had been telling her for years. But they were only true if they came from the celebrity’s lips.

Thank God he’d filmed an episode about the behavioral dangers of a divorcee over fifty in which he refuted the health of getting tattoos, bar-hopping, and dressing like a teenager.

Mom was back to jeans and slacks and her closet of three-quarter length sleeve sweater sets in every color of the rainbow. And scarves. Feminine, age-appropriate scarves.

“Amazing. I had no idea.” Olivia joined her on the couch.

Mom rested her feet on the coffee table and covered up with a blanket. “Baked spaghetti is in the oven. How can you run around in just a T-shirt? It’s freezing.”

Olivia mimicked her mother’s stance. “Spend a winter in Maine and this will feel like a tropical climate.”

“No thanks.” Mom muted the TV. “Are you sure you want to rebuild? I just can’t see you being happy there now that…”

“A person can be happy living anywhere if they choose. I’m choosing happiness.”

Mom sighed. “It’s your life.” She picked up a stack of letters from the end table beside her. “Mail. All forwarded from Stone Harbor.”

Olivia took the stack and flipped through the letters first, saving the 5x8 cushioned package for last. Hartford Farms was stamped as the return address. Olivia bolted forward. Her pulse kicked into high gear. Heartbeat pounded in her ears. This package wasn’t forwarded. Her mother’s address was printed neatly on the label in Blake’s handwriting. Olivia ripped it open. She pulled out a small hardback book with a picture of her and Blake inserted into the clear pouch on the front cover. A journal.

Mom looked at her, eyebrows knotted.

Paper stuck out from the top of the book.

Olivia pulled it out and read in silence.

Olivia,

My condolences for Grams. She was a wonderful lady and will be greatly missed by all.

I’m sorry about the bakery. It’s a terrible loss, and I pray they find the scumbag and bring him to justice.

Lastly, I’m sorry for how I reacted that night. Or should I say overreacted. I let my anger, my bitterness toward my brother cloud my judgment. A choice I’ll forever regret.

Lucas and I have resolved the situation, and I made it to his wedding on time. Two feet of snow kept me from getting home and apologizing to you in person.

Let me assure you my heart is now clean and full of room to fill. I want to fill it with you. I want to fill my home with you. My life with you. So much so that I’ve been working to rearrange the house for two. I’ve even fired up the antique Mayflower range in my kitchen, hoping that, if nothing else, it will convince you to come back to me.

I love you, Olivia. Marry me. And, like your grandfather, fill this journal with pictures and words of our own love story.

— Love, Blake

Olivia couldn’t breathe. Her mind was full of Blake’s words, so impacted by the rawness of them, it forgot to remind her lungs to contract. When her vision went fuzzy around the edges, Olivia shook herself awake from the shock fog. Blake loved her. Wanted to marry her. She tightened her grip on the package and discovered there was more inside. Holding it upside down, a weighty object fell into her lap.

A heart stone. She clasped it in her fingertips and rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface, her tears darkening its color. She rolled it in her palm.

Come home was written on one side in black permanent marker.

Olivia leaned her head back and giggled. Everything was going to be all right. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

Mom was now skimming the letter, tears filling her eyes, too. “That’s romantic.”

“Isn’t it?” Olivia rubbed her chest, unable to contain the elation expanding inside.

“What are you going to say? Never mind. I’ll get you a pen and paper.”

Olivia placed a staying arm on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m saying yes. But I’m not doing it in a letter.” She hugged her mom, gently patting her back. “I’ll tell him in person.”