Under the Wishing Tree (Oakwood Hollow #1)

9. Present

9

Present

Eden

The sun was starting to set by the time I got home. By then, the festival was in full swing, the town square awash with lights and music and laughter.

Exactly the thing I wanted to avoid.

I kicked off my shoes and was about to settle in for the night when my phone rang.

“You are not changing your mind,” Maggie said as soon as I picked up.

“You should open your own booth next year, as a pushy psychic,” I grumbled.

“Are you dressed?”

“Not yet.”

“Then get to it. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t have to come all the way here. I can just meet you at the square,” I said, hoping to buy a little more time.

“No way. I know you. You’re going to try and weasel your way out of it.”

I let out an emphatic sigh. “Fine. Give me twenty. I still need a shower.”

“Wear something nice.”

The hot shower felt like heaven but, not for the first time, I found myself missing the screeching noise. My shower thoughts were too intrusive for a quiet bathroom, and my singing wasn’t nearly good enough to fill the silence.

After, I stood in front of my closet and contemplated my outfit. A big part of me wanted to go the comfortable route and just wear leggings, a sweater and my trusty sheepskin boots, but I knew Maggie would have a few things to say about that. Instead, I opted to wear an emerald green dress with a small black belt around my waist. Then I paired it with black tights and black booties, and completed the outfit with a black cardigan that I’d made for myself.

I was in my dark era, all right.

“You having fun?” Maggie asked as we walked around with our cups of apple caramel macchiatos—a special collaboration between Tom the Tinkerer and Whispering Grove. Except Maggie had slipped a little something extra into ours, and it was definitely making the festivities a little more bearable.

I looked around us, soaking in the atmosphere. The festival buzzed with life under the warm glow of string lights that crisscrossed over the square. Laughter and the hum of conversation filled the air as vendors called out from booths brimming with colorful trinkets, handmade crafts, and mouthwatering treats. The scent of fried dough and caramel drifted through the air, mingling with the sharp tang of a nearby food stall grilling sausages. There were more people in attendance than I’d expected, but the energy was joyous, optimistic.

Which probably explained why I avoided it at every opportunity. Still, the festival wasn’t terrible.

“It’s okay, I guess,” I finally conceded.

“High praise coming from you,” Maggie said with a gentle thump on my shoulder. “Hey, did you hear about the great pumpkin pie fiasco last year?”

I laughed, and for the first time in a long time, it felt genuine. “How could I not? It was all everyone talked about for weeks.”

The story goes that the baker, Pam (who had just given birth a few weeks before), accidentally put lemon pepper spice in the pumpkin pies. The contestants of the pie-eating contest immediately noticed the odd flavor but kept eating out of sheer determination to win.

But, one by one, they started gagging. And then spitting out pie. And, eventually, nearly everyone started to throw up. Only an out-of-towner who barely ate one slice but managed not to throw up, was crowned the winner.

“I’m telling you, momnesia is a very real thing,” Maggie said with a chuckle.

We continued to wander through the festival, with children chasing one another and people enjoying games all around us. And slowly but surely, the dreamlike atmosphere began to pull me in.

My eyes kept straying to the narrow path that led to the field, now lined with hurricane lanterns to lead the way to the main attraction. I felt a strange pull in my stomach to follow that path to the end, but figured it was probably just the splash of spiced rum that Maggie had added into our drinks.

“There you are!” Nellie appeared out of nowhere, making us jump.

“Good God, Nellie, we need to put a bell around your neck,” Maggie sputtered in surprise.

Nellie ignored her and reached for my hand. “Are you ready to meet your match?”

Normally, I would have resisted, but the lights and the merriment and the alcohol had managed to wear down my sharp edges, and I found myself saying, “Sure. Where is he?”

Nellie’s eyes gleamed, a knowing smile on her lips as she tugged on my hand. Maggie flashed me a questioning look, asking if I wanted her to come for support, but I shook my head.

I followed Nellie through the crowd until I realized where she was leading me. “Where are we going exactly?” I asked, digging in my heels.

“To the Wishing Tree,” she said simply.

“Oh no, I’m not going there.” I shook my head, pulling my hand from her grasp.

Nellie’s forehead wrinkled. “Well, why not?”

“How about you just tell me about him from here and I’ll decide if I want to meet him?”

Nellie huffed. “Look, Eden, I’m doing you a favor. I read The Last First Date last week and realized what I had to do.”

“What the heck, Nellie, that book is a murder mystery.” I took a step back, all but done with this interaction.

Nellie kept on, seeing nothing odd about the situation. “Not the murder part, obviously . The setting you up on a blind date part.”

My eyes narrowed. “So who is he?”

Nellie threw her hands up in frustration. “I have no idea. That’s why it’s a blind date!”

“The answer is no, Nellie,” I said, starting off. “Let me know when you read something with a happy ending.”

I found Maggie by the carnival games, arguing with the attendant at the Milk Bottle Apple Toss.

“Don’t tell me you’ve glued the bottles together again, Denny,” Maggie said, motioning to the stack of wooden bottles.

“I didn’t. Swear,” Denny said with his palms up. He was so tall, we could barely see his face under the booth’s awning.

“So you’re saying the bottles will actually fall this time?” Maggie asked.

Denny bent down and shot her a goading look. “Maybe if you actually hit it.”

I bit back a smile the moment the words left his lips. It was exactly the wrong thing to say to the pitcher of the high school baseball team all four years she attended.

Maggie grabbed an apple and balanced it on her palm, her index and middle fingers stretched out like she was searching for a baseball seam. Then, with lips pressed together in a thin line, she hurled the apple and nailed the stack dead center. Wooden milk bottles flew out in different directions, one narrowly missing Denny.

Maggie set her hands on her hips, a cocksure smile on her face. “You were saying?”

“Told you I didn’t glue them together,” Denny mumbled as he went off to get Maggie’s prize.

A few moments later, we walked away laughing, with one toy fox in hand.

“What are you doing here so soon, anyway?” Maggie asked. “Your blind date over already?”

“It was over before it even began.”

She snapped her fingers. “It was Mrs. Callahan’s son, wasn’t it? The one who moved back from the city?”

“No. Maybe,” I said with a shrug. “I didn’t actually meet anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Nellie based the match on a murder mystery novel.”

Maggie’s smile grew and grew until it became an all out laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh along, the absurdity of it all finally sinking in.

“He kills her—” I choke out between breaths. “—after the first date.”

“Wait, wait,” Maggie gasps. “Doesn’t he throw her body?—”

“In a lake.”

We doubled over, holding onto each other, laughing until we could barely breathe. It was the kind of laughter that left you feeling lighter, the kind that I’d sorely needed over the past year.

Eventually, we managed to calm down and catch our breath.

“That Nellie,” Maggie said, shaking her head, still smiling. “She always has the wildest ideas.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes, the lingering giggles finally fading. “On that note, I think I’m going to head home.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Already? The night’s still young.”

“I’ll turn into a pumpkin if I don’t get home soon.”

“You sure you don’t want to stick around a little longer?”

“I’m sure,” I said and pulled her in for a quick hug. “Thanks for tonight, Maggie. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

As soon as I got home, I headed upstairs and changed into the infinitely more comfortable leggings and an oversized hoodie. Then I went to my knitting room, turned on some indie folk music and settled into my chair, doing what I always did on my wild and crazy weekends: I knitted.

It was well past midnight when I finally looked up from my knitting, blinking a few times to refocus. I set the needles aside and stretched, my shoulders aching from being hunched over for so long.

I went to the bathroom and did the usual teeth-brushing and face-cleansing, before heading towards my bedroom. I was about to pull back the blankets and slip inside when I heard the unmistakable sound of my mailbox door squeaking open, then squeaking shut.

I hurried to the window and looked out, but saw nothing amiss by my gate. No mailman, no wild raccoons, no tourists. A strange feeling washed over me, carrying me downstairs. I put on my fuzzy boots and went out, approaching the mailbox slowly, as if I would somehow spook it if I moved too fast.

I walked around to the sidewalk and peered inside the mailbox, expecting to see something, anything.

But it was dark and empty.

I straightened and stuck my hands in my hoodie pockets, scanning the area for anyone that might have been messing with my mailbox. But the streets of Oakwood Hollow were already empty at this late hour, not a single soul in sight.

My fingers brushed against an object in my pocket, something hard and small, the weight and texture of which I knew all too well.

I pulled out my hand, palms up. There, in the center, was Graham’s acorn. I stared at it, dumbfounded. Just that morning, I had seen it tucked away in a red box, nestled among a stack of letters.

Before I could make sense of the acorn’s appearance, a squirrel bounded up onto the mailbox and swiped it from my hand. The squirrel landed on the sidewalk, and before I could react, scurried off down the street.

“Hey, come back here,” I said, taking off after it. The squirrel seemed abnormally fast, darting ahead as if it had a clear destination. I gave chase, my mind whirling with confusion. Why had Graham’s acorn ended up in my pocket? And why was this squirrel determined to steal it from me?

We passed through the square, the place quiet now that everyone had gone home, leaving behind empty booths and string lights swaying gently in the breeze.

The squirrel wove between benches and lampposts, but I kept pace, even as it started down the narrow lane. The area was deserted now, the hurricane lamps had all been turned off, leaving the lane eerily quiet under the glow of the moon. The squirrel paused at the edge of the field, glancing back at me to make sure I was still following. Then it continued, bounding towards the far side of the open field where the Wishing Tree stood.

“Of course you’re going there,” I muttered. I almost turned around, but the thought of losing that acorn propelled me forward until I found myself under the tree’s canopy.

The squirrel ran up the trunk of the tree and stopped at a branch, looking at me with the acorn between its teeth, its tail twitching as if expecting something.

“Okay, you got me here. Now what?” I asked and, for one moment, the squirrel looked as if it might answer.

But then it dropped the acorn in response, the nut bouncing once on the branch before falling down to the ground. Then the squirrel darted away, leaving as swiftly as it arrived.

I walked over and picked up the acorn, wrapping my fingers around it protectively in case any other woodland creatures had other ideas.

The snap of a branch broke through the silence and immediately had me on full alert. A tall figure stepped out from around the tree, his identity hidden in shadow.

My heart pounded painfully in my chest, not out of fear, but from something else… something that felt a lot like hope stirring back to life.

The wind rustled through the leaves and, for a moment, it seemed as if the whole world was holding its breath. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds and shafts of glowing moonlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating the man’s face.

Graham.

I forgot how to breathe. The man who’d been gone two years, who I thought had died, was standing almost within reach. His hair was thicker and longer now, curling behind his ears, and a dark beard covered the lower half of his face, but I’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

“Is that really you?” I whispered, afraid to blink in case the image in front of me disappeared.

“It’s really me,” he said in that deep voice I sometimes heard in my dreams.

I stared at him, still struggling to believe what was in front of me. “You’re not a ghost, are you?”

He let out a decidedly unghostlike snicker. “Judging from the aches and pains, I’m still very human.”

“I don’t understand. How are you here?”

“Literally, the train. Figuratively…” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I’m not entirely sure.”

I sucked in a ragged breath, my legs shaky beneath me. “I didn’t hear from you for a year. I thought… and then the news…” My voice broke. “I thought you’d died.”

Graham’s eyes softened, and he gave a solemn nod. “I almost did,” he said quietly, his voice steady but raw. “A lot of people didn’t make it. I was lucky, but badly injured. I spent months in the hospital, in and out of surgeries. Then months of physical therapy. It was hell.”

Tears stung my eyes at the thought of him far away, hurt and alone. “Why didn’t you write me? Or have someone else tell me?“

“I couldn’t,” he said, the frustration clear in his voice. “I was in no shape to write. And by the time things started looking up, more time had passed than I realized and…” He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he met my eyes again. “Part of me didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t even know if I’d ever be able to walk again.”

My throat tightened, tears spilling over. All the sleepless nights filled with unanswered questions, the endless hours spent wondering if he still lived, if he’d ever come back—finally answered.

Graham was alive. He had survived.

He stepped toward me, a noticeable limp in his right leg. “I’m sorry I made you wait,” he said, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You’re really okay,” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Then, all at once, the distance between us vanished, the time apart melting away, as he held my face in his hands and crushed his lips to mine.

The kiss was a collision of longing and relief, the desperate pull of two souls finally reunited. It filled the emptiness of being apart, and kept the promises spoken years ago. In that kiss was the answer to a long-held prayer.

When we finally pulled away, he leaned his forehead against mine. His hands stayed cradled against my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that I hadn’t even realized were falling.

“I’ve been waiting to do that since the moment I left,” he rasped.

I tilted my head back and studied him, taking in every detail. He looked close to how I remembered him—strong, calm, with that same quiet confidence—but the signs of all he’d endured were present, from the subtle lines on his face and the tiredness in his eyes.

My gaze drifted up to the canopy of leaves hanging above, the branches arching protectively over him, as if the tree itself was reminding me of its promise.

I held my palm open to show him the acorn there. “I guess your wish was granted.”

“Does this mean you believe in the Wishing Tree now?” he asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in, reveling in the steady beating of his heart. “Not yet. But maybe someday.”