Page 78 of In This Moment

Well, some, but not all.

Leaves shushed with a gentle breeze, and everything still smelled of rain. Fresh. Clean. Stars winked overhead, too many to count, and it blew his mind how he’d not paid attention to what he’d been missing. In the city, he’d never had a panorama like this.

They got halfway down Main and stopped in front of The Gazette. He didn’t want to go in yet, and the warm, humid temperatures kept his feet moving.

“We’ll backtrack to the office in a bit.”

Twain looked at him, then ahead, going with the flow.

At the end of the road, he paused, eyeing the infamous peach tree and courtyard designed around it. Rebecca had told him the history, and if what she said had any truth, it was an amazing feat the thing was still around.

What the hell. “Let’s visit Miss Katie.”

If he lived a hundred more years, he didn’t think he’d get used to calling a tree by a formal name.

Parking his butt on one of the benches, he glanced around. Twain jumped up to sit beside him, seemingly doing the same.

Brick was laid around the courtyard’s circumference and a black wrought iron fence around the tree, which sat on a slight grassy noll. Shorter lampposts encased the perimeter. He hadn’t realized before today, but there were spotlights aimed up at the trunk. A few iron signs telling the myth were posted.

Admittedly, what he knew about belle peaches or their trees couldn’t fill a thimble, but he trusted what Rebecca had said as factual. The thing was almost twice as big as others of its variety, and ten times as old. Branches were growing upward, as if reaching, and the shape neared a rounded crown. More decorative and ornamental in his opinion, if not for the size. Leaves had almost finished filling in from the dormant winter, dark green and shaped like the foliage from birches in his parents’ neighborhood. Gorgeous red blooms dotted the tree, but those would be gone by summer.

When he’d asked, Rebecca said she’d wished on the tree as a girl, like so many visitors and townsfolk. He’d not done frivolous things as a kid like cast wishes on stars or dropped pennies in a well. He wondered if that was solely a female thing, but perhaps he should. She hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

“What do you think, Twain? Should I make a wish?”

The dog lifted his paw in a motion to shake, and Graham chuckled. He supposed that was a yes.

Crossing his arms, he leaned back and thought about it. Six months ago, he would’ve asked for his career back or another legit offer from a syndicate. He didn’t miss the hectic pace, or the bullshit associated with the job. Constant travel, deadlines, ten reporters behind him gearing for his position. Meals from a sack and heartburn. Sleepless nights.

If someone had told him, at any point in his life, he’d be his most content editing a small town newspaper in the south, he’d assume he was being pranked. Not accounting for an offer of ownership, but there it was in a nutshell. He still wrote important pieces. It just wasn’t on a massive scale for political junkies or business moguls, and without someone looking over his shoulder. It took him awhile to realize the material they put in The Gazette was important to the people in Vallantine. The patrons may not run for high office or be the latest celebrity or operate a pharmaceutical company, but they did represent the average everyday consumer. They mattered.

He'd been a snob, and no better than the jerks who’d shunned Rebecca in Boston. That changed now, too. He’d do better.

A sigh, and he scratched his jaw. He had no desire to win the lottery, stay young forever, or be best friends with Jason Momoa, though the actor did seem like a cool guy. Graham shook his head. He had a job, a roof over his head, food in his pantry, a great family, and wonderful supportive friends. There wasn’t a solitary thing he wanted.

Except Rebecca.

They had a great thing going, and he hoped to hell he hadn’t mucked it up. There was an ache in his chest that wouldn’t abate since yesterday. He missed her. It had been less than twenty-four hours, and he missed the daylights out of her. All he could think after Gunner’s offer was to go to her and celebrate. She would understand how much it meant to him, besides the fact she deserved it just as much. It was her triumph, too. He’d told Forest and his folks, but the victory was nothing without her by his side. Without him by hers. She was the embodiment of everything he never knew he’d been missing. He couldn’t envision a future without her.

“I wish she’d forgive me.” Huffing a laugh, he swiped a hand over his face, not even a little surprised he’d said the wish aloud. To a tree. Because Rebecca had told him it granted wishes. “I wish she’d forgive me and come back.”

His phone pinged, indicating he had an email on his personal account. He thought about ignoring it, but he dug the cell out of his pocket anyway.

Rebecca? They’d exchanged personal emails, but she’d not sent one yet. He scanned the message, confused. She started a blog?

Clicking the link, her site opened to a lavender and bright green design. In the header was a beyond adorable close-up picture of her with her head inclined, eyes crossed, and the tip of her tongue sticking out between her teeth. Waves of her caramel-colored hair cascaded around her shoulders. She’d named the blog “Because, Becca!”

He smiled at the play on words like she was calling herself out. She didn’t care for the nickname, he knew, but it would give her a small sense of anonymity, thus it was a good choice.

Her biography page listed her writing attributes with links to The Gazette and her socials. He clicked those and followed, along with following the blog. She had quite a few followers already. At the bottom of the page, she’d posted some screenshots of what she described as her first blogs as a young girl, claiming she’d just found them again. She was something else. Cute and crafty.

The only blog piece she had so far was titled “The History of Truths & Lies.” She’d mentioned the popular trending game having originated in Vallantine with William and Katherine. It was brilliant to open with that since she’d get a lot of clicks based off hashtags and word of mouth. The article was articulate and funny, to boot, which people would gravitate toward, and it wasn’t so long that it would bore the reader.

“Look at our girl, killing it online.” He was so damn proud of her.

Putting his phone away, he stared at the tree, the courtyard, and the horizon while petting the dog. Whisps of red and orange were fighting the dark off in the distance for sunrise. Birds were already chirping, as was the sorrowful call of a whippoorwill.

“Aren’t you a postcard, sitting there with your dog, watching the sunrise.”

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