If It Makes You Happy(126)

“You haven’t?”

“It’s written to you.”

Sara chokes out a laugh. “You’re far less nosy than I am.”

The rolling chair whines as Sara leans back, tucking her knees up to her chin. Her eyes skim over the letter. A smile grows, lingers, then suddenly falls. Her hands grip the paper tighter.

She looks at me again. “You didn’t read it?”

I furrow my brow. “No.”

She holds it out to me. “You should. For your peace of mind.”

I swallow, taking a half step back. “It’s written to you,” I repeat.

“Read it, Shells. It’s nothing. Really.”

My heart is suddenly racing as my quivering hand takes the paper. I pinch my eyes closed, inhale, then open them and read.

May 20, 1997

Dear Sara,

I’m writing this to you in hopes that you’ll one day take care of my heart and joy—Bird & Breakfast.

First, I left instructions in this binder with everything you might need. There are lovely people in town who will help if you ask. Lisa lives one block over at 225. Hopefully, they’re alive when you read this—Lord willing. They’re the most generous people I know. You can bribe George with pastries—biscuits are his favorite. Betty will give you free sandwiches if you agree to try her new recipes. Lars is a sweetheart but a gossip; visit him to meet more people. And if Cliff Burke still lives next door, he will bake for you. I made him promise he would, and he is a man of his word.

You are a bright light in this world. You have been since the day you were born. I always tell your father that you were born giggling. You are hope and wonder and heart. I trust your glow will shine through every day. Keep glowing, my little sunshine.

And as a little note: please take care of your sister. Shells has always watched over you, but it’s your turn to protect her. She will need you—even if she never shows it. She’s like me in that way. She’s too strong for her own good. Tell her you love her always. Encourage her to be happy. She might need a little help, but I trust you to be her guiding light.

I love you both so much. You’ve filled me with so much life.

Love,

Mom

I reach up to my pendant and run it up and down the necklace chain. Sara watches.

My breath leaves in shaky exhales. My shoulders are tight. My jaw won’t move from its clenching hold.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Are you?”

She smiles. “Are you?”

I laugh through a derisive snort. “I’m … fine.”

It’s funny; the letter was nothing like I thought it would be. It was a simple letter. Instructions more than anything. But I’m realizing now that I wanted there to be more to it. Maybe I wanted something revolutionary. But it’s nothing. This is all she left. It is what it is.

“Where did you get that, by the way?” Sara asks.

“Get what?”

“Mom’s necklace.”

I glance down at it and let go. I was tracing the pendant up and down the chain.

“She gave it to me,” I say.

“When?”

“It was in Mom’s surgery bag. They took it off her before she went in. I tried to give it back after, but she said I should keep it.”

I’ve never seen Sara freeze so quickly.

“Do you think she knew?” she whispers.

Now it’s my time to freeze.

“How could she?” I ask. “She had just gotten out of surgery. She probably thought she was fine. We all knew she was.”

Sara shrugs, staring at the necklace lying on my collarbone. She curls her shoulders in and bites her lower lip. She reminds me of Emily in that moment. When Sara was her age, we occasionally had conversations like this—existential things. I was always more of a realist, but Sara always thought along the lines of stars and dreams.

“Maybe she felt it,” she says, flicking her eyes to mine. “Knew it was her time. Maybe it’s why she wrote the letter so soon before.”

I want to tell her that’s ridiculous, but I don’t. Sometimes, Sara needs a dose of reality, but now is not that time. I instead set the letter on the desk and cross my arms.

After a moment, Sara murmurs, “What if I said I didn’t want the inn?”

My eyes flick to her. “Why would you say that?”

She audibly swallows, then firmly nods. “I … I want to make art. How can I do that here?”

“Sara …”

“And … well, this place should be yours. It is yours.”

Those words hit me harder than they should.

I shake my head. “No, Mom left it to you.”

“But she also said to make sure you’re happy. And you’re happy here.” I open my mouth to counter, but she cuts in. “You never smile like you do in this inn. Like when you’re talking with guests.” She breathes in slowly and lets it out. “Like how you smile with Cliff.”

“I like it here, but this isn’t my life.”

“But it can be,” she says, almost on a plea.

I jerk my head back.

“Why not, Shells?”

I turn my head, looking at the stairwell—anything to not see her.

“I can’t,” I answer. “I have a life in Seattle. A life I love. A dream I’m living.”