Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(100)

“I was doing this for you,” Randall told Poppy. “So you wouldn’t have to sit through a memorial service after I’m gone. I don’t want you all crying over me.”

And that was why we loved him so much. That was why we’d miss him so terribly when his time did come. Randall had the biggest heart of any person I knew, even when he hid it deep.

Poppy and I shared a look then went to him and pulled him into a three-person hug. Really, it was more of us hugging each other with Randall in the middle because he was still pouting.

“I love you,” I told him.

“I love you too,” Poppy echoed.

He sighed. “I know.”

We stood there for a few moments until it was too hot to share the body heat.

“Let’s go get some lunch.” Poppy looped her arm with Randall’s. “You can have as many desserts as you want today.”

That perked him up. “Jimmy, did you hear that? No dessert limit today. Bet I can eat more apple pies than you.”

Jimmy scoffed. “We’ll see about that.”

The two of them set off toward the cars, the kids and Finn’s parents following, which left Poppy, Cole, Finn and me. In unison, we turned our gazes to the far end of the cemetery.

To where Jamie was buried.

Poppy looked away first, smiling as she took Cole’s hand. “Today is the first time I’ve been here and laughed. Maybe Randall’s crazy scheme wasn’t so crazy after all.”

“Maybe not.” Cole bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. Then he led her toward the cars, to where their children were laughing.

I didn’t look away from the opposite end of the cemetery. Jamie would have loved having a nephew with his name. He would have loved teaching him bad habits and how best to prank his older siblings. He would have loved to know that his wife was so cherished.

He would have loved to know that Finn and I had made it back together.

“He would have been so proud.” Tears spilled from my eyes again. “Ugh. I’m so emotional.”

Finn simply smiled and took me under his arm once more as I fought to suck in the tears. Then he led me and our baby across the grass.

“Jamie,” Finn said quietly to our son, still asleep in his seat. It was a miracle he hadn’t woken up during all the ruckus. “One day, I’m going to tell you the story of how in college, your mom and your uncle Jamie locked themselves in a trunk.”

“Oh my God.” I smacked Finn’s stomach, my tears disappearing into a happy smile. “You can’t tell him that. It’s humiliating.”

“Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. Someday, I’m going to tell him all the funny stories. The ones about you and me. About Poppy and Cole. About Jamie. I want him and Max and Kali to know how blessed we’ve been and how much I love you. Because that’s our story.”

It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.





True to his word, Finn told the kids our story. He waited until our twentieth wedding anniversary, when Kali and Max had families of their own. When Jamie had grown into a young man.

That was when he shared our love story with them.

One letter at a time.





Preview to Gypsy King





Enjoy this preview from Gypsy King, book one in the Tin Gypsy series.





BRYCE


“Morning, Art.” I saluted him with my coffee as I walked through the glass front door.

He returned the gesture with his own mug. “Hiya, Bryce. How are you today?”

“Fantastic.” I shimmied my shoulders, still feeling the dance party I’d had in my car on my way in to work. “The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”

“I hope you’re right. All I can feel at the moment is heartburn.” Art chuckled and his protruding belly jiggled. Even in a pair of cargo pants and a light blue button-up, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

“Is Dad here?”

He nodded. “Been here since before I showed up at six. I think he’s trying to fix one of the presses.”

“Damn. I’d better go make sure he hasn’t gotten pissed and dismantled the whole thing. See ya, Art.”

“Bye, girlie.”

At the Clifton Forge Tribune, I was girlie, dear and the occasional sweetheart, because at thirty-five, I was the youngest employee by thirteen years. Even as part owner, I was still seen as the boss’s kid.

I cruised past Art at the reception desk and pushed through the interior door that opened to the office’s bullpen. The smell of fresh coffee and newspaper filled my nose. Paradise. I’d fallen in love with this smell as a five-year-old girl when I’d gone to work with Dad on a Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day, and nothing had topped it since.

I walked the length of the empty bullpen, past the desks on each side of the center aisle to the door at the back that opened to the pressroom.

“Dad?” My voice echoed in the open room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.

“Under the Goss!”

The ceilings extended high above me, the ductwork and pipes exposed. The unique, musky smell of newspaper was stronger in here, where we kept the giant paper rolls and drums of black ink. I savored the walk across the room, inhaling the mix of paper and solvents and machinery oil as my wedge heels clicked on the cement floor.