Page 83 of Buried Roots

Knickknacks cover every square inch of the place, and there are wooden signs that say things like, “Home is Where the Heart is,” and potted plants. I’d think there were probably gnomes outside in the garden, except, again, I know Frankie.

Clearly seeing my face, Owen says, “I know. Not what you expected, right?”

I look at him, wide-eyed. “Not at all.”

We both bust up.

“This place was Nana Lottie’s, my father’s mother,” he says. “When she died and willed it to my pa, my parents moved in. I was seven, Kayla was five, and Bailey was three. They kept it the same because Pa liked it being the home he grew up in, and Ma couldn’t care less about decor.” Owen whisks out a chuckle. “I think she was grateful not to have to deal with any of it and just be done. So, it stayed like this. Welcome to Grandma Lottie’s designs.”

“I love that story.” I’m speaking on autopilot because being in this place is giving me serious déjà vu, and my mind’s moving a million miles a minute.

How do I know that the door in the entryway leads to an oversized closet? How do I recognize those flowered curtains that adorn every window with puffy valances? I’m breaking into a sweat, so I try to focus on the fact that dinner smells delicious, and there’s something so warm and comforting about it all. This place must look like another home I’ve seen somewhere. Except in my heart, I know that’s not true.

Owen scoots my luggage to a corner then walks me over to the brown flowery couch—the kind people haven’t had in their living rooms since the eighties. It’s worn and tattered, but still comfortable. “Have a seat.”

Hustle and bustle echoes from the kitchen as I introduce Owen to Tesla, and, of course, he immediately befriends him until Demon blazes in and tries to eat my turtle. As Owen manages the attempted turtlecide, I look around, trying to relax and let all the memories come to me. Which they are, but I’m not saying anything until later, when Owen and I are alone.

Soon, I’m getting hugs from Bailey, Kayla, and her wife, Margaret.

We all go into the dining room, which seats ten, and it’s hard for me to imagine having so many people at a dinner table. Tonight will be seven. I have vague memories of this room, too, but they’re not as strong as what I felt in the living room.

Without a word, Frankie sees me and pulls me into a hug, giving me a pat when she says, “Welcome home, Willow.”

“Thank you.”

When Trinity sees me, I expect a big hug, but she won’t even meet my gaze. I shoot Owen a puzzled look, and he shrugs.

Finally, she says, “Are you leaving again?”

I rub her shoulder. “I’ll have to go back to New York to get everything finalized there and move. But after that, I’m going to live in Violet Moon.”

She fidgets, looking at me with something I can’t place. Mistrust?

Looking back to the day after the fire, I remember her saying she had something to tell me, and that she was going to call me, but she never did. I was so busy in New York, I’d forgotten about that. Maybe she’s angry with me?

Oh, man. I can’t believe how much I love this little girl, and I hate to think that leaving broke her heart so much. I put my arm around her when I say, “I’m here to stay.”

She doesn’t respond, but together, she and I spread the plates out around the table in silence. Looking up from the setting, I see Owen in the kitchen and meet his gaze. There’s that thing between us that makes the electricity shiver up my arm and down my spine. His expression tells me he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. I’m nervous, and he somehow comforts me with a look.

Kayla takes a pitcher out of the refrigerator, calling out, “How about some tea, Willow? You look like you could use it.”

“Sure, thank you.”

“Sit by me, Willow.” Trinity scoots out the chair by her, so I do as I’m told.

“Thanks, Trin.” I’m happy to see her warming up to me.

Bailey comes to the table and makes a good show of putting out chicken, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.

Kayla pours me a glass, saying, “I hope you like sweet tea.”

“I’ve never tried it.”

“Get ready.” Margaret takes her seat. “It’s really something.”

Trinity’s already in trouble for shoveling too many mashed potatoes on her plate.

Without a word, Bailey serves me a heaping dish of mashed potatoes and stuffing, which looks divine. I wait patiently for everyone to be seated, but it appears this rule doesn’t apply here, as everyone is serving themselves and eating as they go.

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