Page 101 of Imperfect Arrangement
“How about a detour?” I shift back into drive.
Her eyes light up. “Where are we going?”
“To Whispering Willow.”
Her brows lift as her face breaks into a delighted smile. “That’s your name!”
“It is,” I confirm, chuckling as I steer us toward the outskirts of town. During the drive, I tell her about my grandparents and their B&B. Her excitement is contagious, and I realize how much I like sharing my life with Quill.
As I anticipated, Mom and Nana descend on us the second we step through the door, doting on Quill. The two women might as well have forgotten I exist, and honestly, it’s a relief. If it means avoiding questions about my “fiancé,” I’ll take it. But before they can completely overwhelm my girl with homemade cookies or stories about my embarrassing childhood, I grab Quill’s hand and whisk her away to show her around.
When we reach the front of the property, Quill stops abruptly, her wide eyes fixed on the green wooden sign hanging proudly from the stone wall.
“Whispering Willow,” she reads aloud, her little voice soft but clear. She tilts her head, as if puzzled over something. “Does it mean quiet Willow?”
I laugh, crouching beside her. “Something like that.” I tug her hand gently. “Now come on. I’ve got something else to show you.”
We take the dirt path lined with towering evergreens. The trail connects the back of the B&B to our upcoming, still nameless, wedding estate.
“This,” I say as we emerge into the clearing, “is something your dad and I have been working on.”
“Together?” she squeaks, practically bouncing.
By now, I know how much Quill likes when I’m in the mix with her and her dad.
“Together,” I confirm, my own voice steady despite the strange flutter in my chest.
We approach the building where the construction work is running in full flow. The high iron gate is freshly installed, its subtle sage-green paint a soft, welcoming touch—so unlike the stark black gates most estates opt for. Low stone walls flank either side, already draped with ivy that will grow lush and thick in time. Roses climb the building’s exterior, their soft blooms framing the walls in a perfect blend of wild and elegant.
Quill signs, “This looks so beautiful,” and honestly, I couldn’t agree more.
We stroll farther onto the estate grounds, Quill’s small hand wrapped tightly in mine, until we reach the stream at the edge of the property. I’ve been waiting to share my favorite spot with her—the one where Gramps and I spent countless hours dreaming about this place, which is slowly becoming a reality. But as my eyes fall on the clearing, my knees nearly buckle.
A brand-new porch swing hangs from the branches of the willow tree Gramps and I planted together years ago. My breath catches as I step closer, the golden plaque on the backrest glinting in the last rays of sunset.
“In loving memory of Mike Pershing.”
Quill tilts her head, reading aloud, “M-I-K-E. Who’s Mike?”
“My gramps,” I manage, my throat tightening around the words.
Emotion rises so fast, so fierce, I can’t stop it. How did Raymond know to put the swing here? Then it hits me. The presentation. The photo of Gramps and me in this exact spot was one of the slides I’d shown him at La Bella Vita.
“Can we sit on the swing?” Quill asks, her eyes lighting up. I hoist her up, then slide in beside her. The soft creak of the chains feels both new and nostalgic.
“It says press me,” she points out, her tiny finger hovering over a switch on the armrest. Before I can think about it, she presses on it, and the tree comes alive.
Tiny fairy lights hanging between its branches flicker on, casting a warm glow over us.
“Wow,” Quill whispers, her voice filled with awe, while I’m unable to form a response.
The tree I’ve always associated with loss and loneliness now feels…alive. Warm. Comforting. Something childhood dreams are made of. Tears blur my vision even when I try to stop them, unbidden and unstoppable.
“Willow, are you sad?” Quill’s small hand rubs circles on my back.
I swipe at my cheeks and force a smile, shaking my head. “No, Bug. I’m just…emotional.”
Her brows pinch in worry. “Can I do something to make you happier?”
