Under the Wishing Tree (Oakwood Hollow #1)

4. Present

4

Present

Eden

I spent most of the day in the cafe. It wasn’t entirely by choice, as the steady flow of customers never really slowed down, but a part of me didn’t want to be out there anyway, taking part in the final festival preparations. It was hard enough to keep up the cheerful act for people in here; I wasn’t sure I could do it out there too, in front of the entire town.

“I thought you were taking off after lunch?” Lucinda, my employee, asked at one-thirty in the afternoon.

I motioned around us, every single table occupied in the cafe. Some were early festival-goers but most were townsfolk who didn’t have time to go home and make their own lunch. “I can’t leave you alone like this.”

There was something strange in the air today. Our already-peculiar customers were even more so today. One guy ordered escargot like he was in a bistro in France and not a small town cafe. I told him that if he wanted to eat snails, he’d have to wait while I picked some up from Mabel’s garden. Someone else tried to bring in an emotional support chicken and was offended when they couldn’t stay.

“Meanwhile, Alora is back, holding her one-person book club,” I said, pointing with my lips towards the ten-year-old girl taking up an entire table by herself. Alora was the bookish youngest daughter of Doc Jackson, the town physician. She came to the cafe once a week with a book and a pad of sticky notes and, though she was always by herself, she’d discuss the book’s plot out loud and would often leave notes on the table with her starred review of the book. She was never a nuisance or a bother, but I always felt it my responsibility to keep an eye on her when she was here.

Lucinda, as always, was nonplussed. Her unflappable nature was why I hired her in the first place. “Please. I raised five children all by myself. I think I can handle this.” She took me by the shoulders and steered me towards the backroom. “You need a break.”

“I really don’t.” Still, I took off my apron and hung it up on the hook. I stood in the relative darkness, staring into the storage shelves for a moment, trying to figure out what to organize, when a yawn slipped out of me.

“Go, Eden. I have it under control,” Lucinda called from outside.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” I started for the door, but hesitated, grabbing the coffee carafe instead and topping off a few more mugs. It wasn’t until Lucinda gently pried the carafe from my hands and ushered me toward the door that I finally gave in.

“Call me if it gets too busy,” I called out.

On my way out, Alora looked up and said, “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late, that such feelings are gone forever.”

I stared at her eager face, trying to place the quote. “Jane Austen?” I guessed.

Alora’s eyes lit up. “Ding, ding, ding!” She picked a napkin up off the table, revealing a well-worn copy of Persuasion underneath. “It’s a quote from Captain Wentworth.”

“I didn’t know you read Jane Austen.” Not for the first time, I was struck with the feeling that I was speaking to a wise old woman instead of a child.

“Well, duh,” she said, quickly disabusing me of that notion. “Who hasn’t?”

With the quote echoing through my head, I took a shortcut through the back street to avoid people at the square. As I neared my house, I noticed a woman with dark, pixie cut hair sitting sideways on my porch swing, their legs covered by a brown tartan blanket.

My best friend, Maggie, looked up, a covered mug of coffee cradled in her hands.

“You look cozy,” I said, taking a seat by her feet.

“I’m beat is what I am. I’ve been driving around in my truck all day, delivering apples by the bushel like a tiny, harried Santa Claus.” She let out a weary breath. “You’d think people would plan ahead, but every year, they call me on festival day in a panic.”

I leaned back with a chuckle, gently rocking the swing. My eyes wandered down the steps and to my little white gate, seeing the ghostly echoes of Graham and me standing there.

“Anybody home?”

I blinked back to reality, to a hand waving in my face. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were coming to the festival.”

“I wish people would stop asking me that.” I realized too late how snippy I sounded and quickly added, “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Maggie held out her coffee, and I accepted, taking a grateful sip before handing it back. “So, you’re not going to the festival? Again?” she asked.

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Laundry,” I said, having the excuse ready. “And I was thinking of catching up on my reading.”

Maggie studied me with her ever-observant green eyes. She was seven years older than me and was not just my best friend but also my self-appointed voice of reason. “Come on, Eden, it’s been a long time…”

My eyes stung as the rest of her sentence hung in the air.

… when are you going to let go?

In truth, I’d been trying to let go, little by little, for the past year. But that’s the thing about love—sometimes the roots grow so deep it becomes almost impossible to unearth.

“Eden, you know I’m only saying this because I care about you, but…” Maggie started in that gentle voice she used when trying not to upset me. “You only knew him for a day.”

I blinked over at her, pushing down the emotions threatening to surface. “It’s hard to explain, but that one day… it was everything.”

We’d talked about Graham before, had spent long hours sitting together with mugs in our hands (sometimes filled with coffee, sometimes wine), going over every detail of that fall day two years ago. Maggie had been thrilled for me, squealing with me with every letter I received, and then she was worried with me. And then, finally, broken-hearted.

But while Maggie and the rest of the town had moved on, I felt stuck, suspended in this melancholy state. Most days I managed to forget but, on days like today, it felt like the universe was doing its best to remind me of what I’d lost.

“I wish you’d met him,” I said with a shaky smile. “He was kind and strong and gentle and so…”

“Handsome?” Maggie asked with a wry smile. “At least that’s what Mabel keeps telling everyone.”

A soft laugh came out of me. “Yeah, he was.” It hurt to speak of Graham in the past tense, but maybe that’s the only place he existed anymore.

Maggie reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze, her eyebrows wrinkled in concern. “I know you really cared for him, but maybe it’s time to move on. If he’s as amazing as you say he was, I don’t think he’d want you wallowing.”

I started to argue that I wasn’t wallowing, but who was I kidding? I was neck-deep in the swamp of despair. “No, he probably wouldn’t.”

“So, come out tonight? Have a donut, enter the sack race, drink some cider,” she said. “We’ll have fun.”

I sniffed. “Maybe. But I’m not going anywhere near that stupid tree.”

“Shh, don’t say that so loud,” she said, eyes darting around. “Trees talk to each other, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not real, Maggie. There’s no magic there. It’s just a tree.”

“Agree to disagree,” Maggie said in a voice loud enough for the trees in my yard to hear. “I, for one, believe in the Wishing Tree.”

“How many of your wishes has the tree granted?”

“None. But that doesn’t mean it won’t.” She hung the blanket on the back of the swing and swung her legs down, slipping her socked feet into her well-worn boots. “See you tonight?” she asked, pointing her empty mug at me.

I sighed. “Fine.”

After Maggie left, I went inside and headed up to my room. At the top shelf in my closet, sitting beside a stack of folded pants, I found the small red shoebox that once held my favorite pair of glitter Mary Janes. Nowadays, it contained letters and postcards and various other knick-knacks I’d collected over the years. Little pieces of the past that I couldn’t bear to part with.

I took the box to the window seat and lifted the lid, the familiar scent of old paper and ink drifting up to greet me. On top, the letters from Graham lay neatly stacked.

I picked out the very first one he sent, the notebook paper soft and worn from being unfolded too many times.

Dear Eden,

I can’t believe I’m sitting here, writing to you from all the way across the country. Feels surreal that, only yesterday, I was in Oakwood Hollow with you.

I made it to my flight by a hair. The train took longer than expected and I had to sprint through the airport, barely making it before they closed the plane doors. My superiors at Ft. Irwin weren’t thrilled I cut it so close, but I’m here, checked in and ready.

We’ve started our pre-deployment training. For the next four weeks, we’ll be training for real-world combat scenarios. But right now, it’s all in-processing and orientation. A whole lot of hurry-up-and-wait. It’s the calm before the storm. But even with all that’s happening, I can’t stop thinking about you.

It doesn’t seem real that I got on the wrong train and somehow found myself in this strange little town and met you. Sometimes I wonder if I just dreamed it all up. But I have your name and your cafe address memorized. That’s proof enough for me that you’re real, that it all happened.

This next year is going to be tough, but I’ll tuck the memory of you inside my heart and pull it out when times look bleak. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m hopeful the Wishing Tree heard what I asked for.

And maybe, hopefully, when I return stateside, I’ll be on the first train back to Oakwood Hollow. Back to you.

Graham

My lungs felt as if I couldn’t draw enough air. I clutched the letter against my chest, hoping almost desperately for some of the hope and promise in Graham’s word to seep into me.

Maggie was right—Graham wouldn’t have wanted this for me. He’d want me to move forward, to find joy again. But knowing that didn’t make it easier to let go.

I carefully folded the letter and placed it back inside the box, nestled among other reminders of my past. I put it back up on the shelf and stepped out of the closet before finally, reluctantly, closing the door.