Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(26)

She loved Alcott—or she used to.

Molly hadn’t been here in years. The last time I remembered seeing her on the property was before the divorce.

Was I missing something? Why hadn’t Molly come inside my house? Why didn’t she come out here?

Divorcees were allowed a reprieve from answering those types of questions. From opening up conversations that would probably only cause pain.

Until they started sleeping together.

Now those questions would be constantly on my mind. They were begging for answers I doubted I’d want to learn. I stepped outside, and for once, the fresh air didn’t offer any kind of peace.

The last truck in the yard pulled out, two guys riding shotgun as Lena, another crew leader, drove away. She smiled as she passed me on the road.

God, I wanted to go with them. To run and hop into the back of that truck and get lost in June for a day. To forget the questions and doubts and just . . . work.

But the office summoned. The bills and schedules couldn’t be ignored. So, I trudged inside, settling for an open window in my office as the only link to the work I actually loved.

I mentally added business manager to my list of potential employees.

Poppy had been brilliant to hire Molly to run the business side of the restaurant. It allowed my sister to be in the kitchen, doing what she loved. I needed a Molly to run Alcott. Except I’d had a Molly to run Alcott and then she’d left.

Or had I chased her away?

I managed to pay three bills before the front door chimed again. I dropped my head, blowing out a long breath. The chances of me getting out of here on time to get to Molly’s were dwindling with each interruption.

The footsteps down the hallway were hesitant. It was probably a customer or potential customer coming in to visit. Hopefully they’d spend enough time looking at the photos in the hallway of our past projects to buy me another minute.

“Come on back,” I called, barreling through one last bill.

I had just clicked the submit button when Molly appeared in the doorway. “Hi.”

I did a double take. “Hey. What are you doing here? Is everything okay with the kids?”

“They’re fine. Do you have a second?”

“Yeah.” I stood as she crossed the room. “Want some water? Or coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She took a seat in one of the chairs across from my desk and clutched her purse in her lap as she looked around the office. “It hasn’t changed much in here.”

I grinned and sat down. “No, I guess not. I was thinking earlier that you haven’t been here in a long time.”

Her eyes dropped to the edge of the desk. “It’s been a while.”

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Why did you send them?”

“Send what?”

She looked up. “The letters.”

Letters? We sent out letters to customers in March reminding them that mowing season was right around the corner. Bridget had been ambitious last Christmas and sent out holiday cards. But besides those, I couldn’t think of anything I might have sent Molly.

“What letters?”

She gritted her teeth and dove into her purse. Then she whipped out two white envelopes. “These letters.”

I reached across the desk and took them from her hand. The handwriting on the envelopes wasn’t mine. “These aren’t from me.”

Molly didn’t say a word as I pulled out the folded paper from one. The minute the lined sheet was in my hand, an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. There was something familiar about it. I peeled the ends apart and that sinking feeling turned to a lead rock.

“Where did you get this?” No one, especially Molly, was ever supposed to see this letter.

“It came last week.”

“Last week?”

“The other one came today.”

I tore into the other envelope like a madman, yanking out the paper and spreading it flat. It was the letter I’d written the night before proposing.

Oh, fuck. “How did you get these?”

“What do you mean, how did I get these?” Molly snapped. “You sent them to me. Why?”

“I didn’t send these to you.”

The word liar was written all over her face.

“Molly, I did not send these.”

“But you wrote them?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I wrote them.” For me. I’d never had any intention of giving Molly these letters.

“I don’t understand.” She sank deeper into the chair. “You wrote these but didn’t send them? So how did they show up in my mailbox?”

“I don’t know.” I ran a hand over my face, rubbing my jaw. The letters were in my closet—or were supposed to be—in a box I hadn’t opened in years. The last time had been after the divorce. I’d dumped my wedding ring in there, shoved it on the top shelf and pretended it didn’t exist.

“It really wasn’t you?” Molly asked.

“It really wasn’t me.”

“Oh.” Something flashed across her face, but before I could make sense of it, she was out of her chair. With her hair swishing across her shoulders, she raced out of the office and down the hallway.

“Molly.” I stood and chased after her, but it was too late. She’d already flown out the front door.