Page 119 of A Little Luck

“Mom!” I shout, shoving my phone in my pocket and heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Are you bringing Martha back to write headlines?” Jemima calls after me.

I’m out the door before I have time to answer, jogging around the back way, through the short strip of forested road to where her cedar shack is hiding in the saplings.

Only, the closer I get, I see a lot has changed in just a few days. Trees have been cut, and signs of a front walk are starting to emerge. She’s no longer hiding, and I’m surprised by how happy it makes me.

It’s like we’ve both been set free from the chrysalis of the past, and we’re both emerging as different varieties of butterflies. Hers has pots of rose-bush cuttings on the front porch that look like they came from Gwen’s yard.

Following the scent of coffee, I walk around to the back of the house. Everything is different since the last time I was here, frantically searching for her.

Inside, she’s dancing around the kitchen humming the tune to “Karma” by Taylor Swift. I can’t help a snort.

“Mom?” I call through the door, and she throws up both hands with a loud yelp. “Sorry,” I manage through my laughter. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Piper Ann, what are you doing here?”

It’s the first time she’s called me that in a while, and I go to where she’s standing at the coffee pot to pull her into a hug.

My mind filters through the messages she posted around town…Follow your path, Open your heart, Trust your instincts, You are brave, You are strong…

In every one, she was telling me what I needed to hear in a way I might listen.

“Thank you.” My voice is thick with unshed tears.

“For what?”

“For doing what you could, even when I made fun of you.” Meeting her eyes, I watch hers grow misty. “Even when I pushed you away.”

She pats my arms so I’ll release her and turns to face the coffee pot. “Children are supposed to push their parents away. It’s how you learn to stand on your own.”

“But you were always there.”

She drove me to the hospital when Ryan was born. She stood at my side, silently guarding me the whole night. She built this entire, elaborate underground shelter to keep me safe as a little girl. She risked everything, changing her name, faking her death…

“I like what you’re doing with the place.” I look out the screen door, where bags of mulch sit beside paint supplies in boxes under the carport. “Jemima thinks you should write headlines for us again. I can’t pay you, but I could sure use the help.”

Turning to me again, a coffee cup in her hand, she grins. “Those were pretty good headlines, you have to admit.”

“They were not.” I put my hand on the door. “But you have good instincts. I bet if we just moved a few words around, they’d be perfect.”

“Perfection is a construct we use to keep ourselves in cages.”

“Maybe.” I pause to kiss her cheek before I go. “But we’re still going to write better headlines. Stop by on Friday, and we can work on the Sunday edition.”

* * *

“Everything in its time.”My cheek rests against Adam’s bare chest, and his fingers thread in my long hair.

He slides his hand up my arm, leaning forward to catch my eyes. “What’s that?”

“It was one of the signs.” All the messages over the last year float through my mind.

“Those signs.” He exhales in understanding. “Aiden was not a fan, but I liked them. They were always inspirational.”

“They were for me.” Lifting my head, I rest my chin on my hand. “Mom did them. She made them all, painted them all, and hung them around town where I’d see them.”

“Seriously? She told you that?” He sits higher on the headboard, and I lean beside him, less worried about covering my body with a sheet than I have been in a long time.

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