Chapter 43
Michelle
T he doorbell rings. I crack open the front door of Bird visit him to meet more people. And if Cliff Burke still lives next door, he will bake for you. I made him promise he would, and he is a man of his word.
You are a bright light in this world. You have been since the day you were born. I always tell your father that you were born giggling. You are hope and wonder and heart. I trust your glow will shine through every day. Keep glowing, my little sunshine.
And as a little note: please take care of your sister. Shells has always watched over you, but it's your turn to protect her. She will need you—even if she never shows it. She's like me in that way. She's too strong for her own good. Tell her you love her always. Encourage her to be happy. She might need a little help, but I trust you to be her guiding light.
I love you both so much. You've filled me with so much life.
Love,
Mom
I reach up to my pendant and run it up and down the necklace chain. Sara watches.
My breath leaves in shaky exhales. My shoulders are tight. My jaw won't move from its clenching hold.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Are you?"
She smiles. "Are you ?"
I laugh through a derisive snort. "I'm … fine."
It's funny; the letter was nothing like I thought it would be. It was a simple letter. Instructions more than anything. But I'm realizing now that I wanted more to it. Maybe I wanted something revolutionary. But it's nothing. This is all she left. It is what it is.
"Where did you get that, by the way?" Sara asks.
"Get what?"
"Mom's necklace."
I glance down at it and let go. I was tracing the pendant up and down the chain.
"She gave it to me," I say.
"When?"
"It was in Mom's surgery bag. They took it off her before she went in. I tried to give it back after, but she said I should keep it."
I've never seen Sara freeze so quickly.
"Do you think she knew?" she whispers.
Now, it's my time to freeze.
"How could she?" I ask. "She had just gotten out of surgery. She probably thought she was fine. We all knew she was."
Sara shrugs, staring at the necklace lying on my collarbone. She curls her shoulders in and bites her lower lip. She reminds me of Emily in that moment. When Sara was her age, we occasionally had conversations like this—existential things. I was always more of a realist, but Sara always thought along the lines of stars and dreams.
"Maybe she felt it," she says, flicking her eyes to mine. "Knew it was her time. Maybe it's why she wrote the letter so soon before."
I want to tell her that's ridiculous, but I don't. Sometimes, Sara needs a dose of reality, but now is not that time. I instead set the letter on the desk and cross my arms.
After a moment, Sara murmurs, "What if I said I didn't want the inn?"
My eyes flick to her. "Why would you say that?"
She audibly swallows, then firmly nods. "I … I want to make art. How can I do that here?"
"Sara …"
"And … well, this place should be yours. It is yours."
Those words hit me harder than they should.
I shake my head. "No, Mom left it to you."
"But she also said to make sure you're happy. And you're happy here." I open my mouth to counter, but she cuts in. "You never smile like you do in this inn. Like when you're talking with guests." She breathes in slowly and lets it out. "Like how you smile with Cliff."
"I like it here, but this isn't my life."
"But it can be," she says, almost on a plea.
I jerk my head back.
"Why not, Shells?"
I turn my head, looking at the stairwell—anything to not see her.
"I can't," I answer. "I have a life in Seattle. A life I love. A dream I'm living."
"But you're in love!" Her hands flail in the air before slapping down on her thighs. "Isn't that good enough, Shelly? You're in love with this town. This place. And Cliff. You are so stupidly in love with Cliff, and it's so frustrating, watching you throw all this away. Him and the inn. And for what? To live in the same stupid townhouse you had with Allen?"
I clench my jaw. "It's more than that, and you know it. I can't pick up my life and move here. I have a dream offer. An offer I've worked so, so hard for, Sara. You don't even understand. You have no idea what I've sacrificed to make this career. I've done so much . My own damn marriage couldn't stand up to it. So, why shouldn't I get what I've worked for? This is what I have. What I deserve. This career. I have nothing but this, and I love it. I can't leave it." The words leave so wildly that they surprise even me.
Sara stares at me for too long, then shakes her head stiffly. She huffs out a sardonic laugh, slams the binder closed, and walks toward the kitchen. She stops short of the doorway.
"You ever stop to think that maybe you deserve more?"
I open my mouth and close it, running my tongue over my teeth and sighing.
Sara shakes her head. "Just a thought. See you tomorrow."
I mumble a small, "See you tomorrow," but I don't think she hears me.
That night, I don't sleep in my own bed. I sneak between the rose bushes and push into the Burke house with a quiet creak of the back door. A gurgling coffeepot brews in the corner, and Cliff sits with a book at the kitchen table.
His lips pull at the corner, the crease beside his mouth deepening so beautifully, and I hope I can remember it exactly as it is when I'm across the country.
I walk to him and lower into his lap. He turns the book spine-up on the table and wraps his arms around my waist.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Do I know you?"
I smile. "No, I don't think we've met. I'm Michelle."
I hold out my hand. He gently slides his palm into mine—large and rough compared to my smooth fingers.
"Cliff. And might I say, you are an absolutely stunning woman."
Shake.
"Someone told me that once."
He laughs through a bitten lip. "Well, you should be told every minute of your life."
Shake.
"You're funny," I say.
"Not a single person has told me that."
Shake.
"You should be told that every minute of your life," I whisper back.
He stops shaking my hand and leans his head into the crook of my neck.
"Hey," he murmurs.
"Hi."
"Figured you'd be here eventually," he says. "Made you some coffee." He nods toward the coffeepot. He aimlessly runs his palm up my spine. Touching me. Always touching me. "And … I have your Christmas gift."
I straighten up. "Oh, really?"
"Really."
He pats my butt so that I rise off his lap, then walks to the counter. He swivels around with a small white box.
"I've missed your weird baker thing," I say with a sigh.
"I think I've mastered the baker thing this time." Cliff sets the box on the table. "Try it."
I look at him, then back to the box, sliding open the lid and looking inside.
I've never seen a pastry like this before. It's not a muffin, but it's not a sweet roll either. The dough has that croissant texture, but it's also compact. Small. Round. And it smells exactly like burnt sugar.
I pick it up, take a bite, and … melt .
It's buttery. Flaky. There's a soft crunch with a bit of the sugar flaking off onto my lips. It's messy, but every crumb is a delicate balance of flavors.
It's so unique, so wonderful, that I take a second bite, trailing my tongue over my lips after.
"What is this?" I ask.
I glance over at Cliff. He sinks into an exhale, and the little line beside his mouth deepens.
"It's kouign-amann."
I laugh. "Kwe what?"
He leans from one hip to the other, sauntering over to my side and placing a palm around my lower back.
"It's a French pastry. A pastry that is"—he leans in on an exhausted exhale—" incredibly difficult to make. With many layers. A lot like you."
"I'm difficult to make?"
"You're difficult. In the best of ways."
I smile. "Well, it's my favorite," I announce, dropping the last bite into my mouth.
His eyes pinch closed as he grins. "God, that's so hot. Say it again."
I lean closer. "It's my favorite, Cliff."
Peering down at me through hooded eyes, he grabs my hand and tugs me down the hall.
The moment his bedroom door shuts, we're reaching for each other. Cliff cups my head and kisses me. It's wild. Eager.
He lifts my shirt over my head as I grip his jaw. I bite his lip as he pushes the hem of my tight skirt up around my waist. Together, we fall backward on the mattress.
Cliff kisses over my chest with low, barely there hums, like he's singing a hymn in his church and I'm the icon he's praying to. He gingerly tugs down my bra cup, kissing the peak of my breast and then the other. Licking. Biting. His tongue traces a line down the middle of my chest, between my ribs, and over my stomach. He places kiss after kiss between my thighs and over my underwear before hooking his thumbs in the fabric and pulling them down.
I watch as his eyes flick up to meet mine. That very reliable snag locks us in place, and slowly, with his eyes steady, his tongue rolls over me. I gasp out a breath.
He dips his fingers inside, curling with ease, sending zips of nerves through my stomach and to my chest. I'm on fire with every stroke of his tongue and every subsequent pump of his fingers. It's magic. Thrilling. My chest heaves up and down as I try to gasp for breath. My fingers thread through his hair.
I try to stay quiet as sensation rolls through me, but it's fruitless with how his tongue is moving. Eventually, Cliff reaches up and cups his palm over my mouth. That alone—the grip of his rough palm over my lips—sends my orgasm barreling over me in a rush.
I'm breathless when I pull his arm to coax him back up to me. I reach for his belt, and it clangs apart, the zipper pulling down in a quick hiss. He's inside me within moments. I close my eyes, letting every thrust push me closer and closer. Every beat of his heart against mine thrums over my chest and down my stomach before pulsing between my thighs.
His thumb strokes over my cheek. "Open your eyes, Michelle."
I find him looking down at me, searing me to my soul, like he always has from the first day he laid eyes on me. His hand lands beside my head. I entwine my fingers through his.
And suddenly, our quickness slows to a crawl.
"I love watching you," he says.
I love you.
"Please," is all I can say.
His husky laugh follows as he thrusts deeper. "God, you're beautiful," he huffs out, cupping my cheek in his palm, stroking a thumb over my bottom lip and tugging.
"Keep talking," I breathe.
"You like feeling me inside you?"
"Yes."
"I love this."
I love you .
"You feel so good," he exhales. "Like you were made for me."
I wonder if it's true. If I'm the only woman who sees him for the man that he is. Funny and sarcastic, but selfless and good. And I wonder if he was made for me, if he's the only man who will ever see me. I don't believe in destiny or stars, but I have to believe Cliff's constellation would align right beside mine.
"You think so loud," he says, pumping into me harder. "Let it out."
I moan, and his palm roughly covers my mouth again. I remember the first time he held me like this. The first night we kissed. The night he caged me against that house and told me, "Screw it," and we fell into the abyss together. The night I realized that I wanted him.
I loved him in that moment.
I didn't know it yet.
But, oh, how I did.
The sensation hits me suddenly, zipping through my chest, over my shoulders, and down to my fingers. My mouth widens in a breathy whine as I orgasm. He thrusts inside me, giving an equally low, muffled groan as we come together.
I wouldn't call what we did sex . It's too crude. But I wouldn't say it was making love either. It was something different altogether—something that didn't feel like it should have been mine—but I sure hoped whatever it was didn't mean goodbye .
I look at the clock. It's ten minutes after midnight. I officially leave Vermont today. I pull in a heavy, shaking breath. Cliff glances at the red digital numbers, too, then kisses the dip in my collarbone.
His silence speaks louder than anything either of us could say.