Happily Letter After(12)

Mandy.

Amanda.

Sebastian’s Saltimbocca.

They had an extensive wine list.

“Whatcha doin’?”

I jumped at the sound of Devin’s voice from behind. “You scared me.”

“Why did you tab over to another screen just now?”

“No reason. You know . . . I’m not really supposed to be goofing off.”

She smirked. “What’s Bianco’s?”

Great. She’d caught the name at the top of the tab.

I let out a long breath but tried my best to still sound nonchalant. “It’s Birdie’s dad’s restaurant.”

“Nice!” She laughed, all too pleased with my apparent weakness. “You know I’m down with the stalking—especially the stalking of that amazing-looking specimen.”

“I know you fully support it. But I feel stupid doing it.”

“But a part of you can’t help it, right?”

I shrugged. “He’s intriguing.”

Her eyes filled with excitement, like a giddy kid who’d just found out the carnival was coming to town. “So when are we going? I’m suddenly craving a nice big bowl of al dente pasta.”

“Oh, no. That’s where I draw the line. Online stalking is one thing. That’s a leisurely pastime. Innocent, even. But showing up in person? No.” I shook my head. “No, no, no.”

“It’s a public restaurant. How is that stalking?”

Rustling some of the papers on my desk, I said, “Devin . . . drop it.”

“Would you care if I checked it out, then? Armando and I have been looking for a new place to try.”

“Are you going to tell your fiancé that the real reason you’re taking him there is to check out the hot owner?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t have to know that. He loves food. He’ll be thrilled.” Devin leaned over to my computer. “Can you make a reservation online?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check because I had no intention of going.”

“Let me see,” she said, grabbing my mouse and maximizing the screen before perusing the site. “Ah.” She grinned.

“What are you doing, Devin?”

She proceeded to type in all her information. “The only opening was 5:00 pm on Saturday. Looks like everything beyond that is taken. Good thing I love early-bird specials like an old person anyway.”

Shaking my head, I said, “You’re nuts.”

She winked. “I’ll let you know if I spot him.”



Two weeks passed, summer was coming to an end soon, and no more letters from Birdie had arrived. Devin and Armando ended up having that amazing and very expensive dinner at Bianco’s—with no sign of Sebastian Maxwell whatsoever. That’s what she gets for trying to stalk him.

Because it had been a while, I’d been pretty convinced that I wouldn’t hear from Birdie again.

Then one afternoon, much to my surprise, in the middle of my usual stack of mail was a letter from my little friend.

My pulse raced as I ran to my desk, dumped the rest of the mail down, and ripped open the envelope.

Dear Santa,

Did Mommy tell you she came to visit me at Central Park? I know you gave her my message because there was a black horse like I told you about on the carousel. She sent a butterfly to lead me to it. I don’t know if she sent a butterfly or if the butterfly was really her? Anyway, it was so amazing. I miss her so much.

But can you ask her why she isn’t trying to come see me anymore? I keep looking for her, and she hasn’t given me any more signs. Now that you reached her and she found a way back, I thought she would want to spend more time with me.

I’m worried she might be mad at me now that she can see me. Maybe she knows what I did to Suzie’s hair or that I sometimes steal cookies in the middle of the night.

Can you just tell her to send me one more sign so I know she’s not mad? Even if she can’t stay?

I’m sorry to bother you again, Santa. This will be the last time. I promise.

Birdie

As I folded the letter while tears streamed down my cheeks, I realized that maybe Birdie wasn’t the only person who needed help anymore.



It had been a long time since I’d visited my shrink, Dr. Eloisa Emery. Her office overlooked Times Square, which I always found ironic, since the view from her window was just about the most chaotic thing I could imagine. Definitely not a relaxing atmosphere for a therapy appointment. During my sessions, I’d stare out at the massive, ever-changing digital billboard as I attempted to gather my thoughts.

I’d been suspecting I needed my head checked for some time, and today I was taking that literally, sharing the story of Birdie and hoping that Dr. Emery could help me move past everything.

I’d just finished telling her about our letters and ended on the most recent one I’d received.

“The tone of this one seemed more panicked,” I said. “She was truly worried that she’d done something to keep her mother’s spirit away. There was no usual P.S. at the end, either, so the overall tone was a bit short. It made me realize that I had really made things worse in setting her up to find that horse, even if it was the butterfly that ultimately led her there.”