Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Yeah, there are a couple of jars of honey back there,” I say, laughing too.
Instead of tallying up my bill, she rests her wrinkly forearms on the counter and smiles.
The Cupboard is bright and airy. This has always surprised me about the store, considering that it’s small and built out of dark wood, just like the cabins. I note the sweetness in the air, something Mrs. Shaw told me years ago was from her late husband spilling a bucket of freshly tapped maple syrup back in the fifties. The smell started that day and never left.
“How have you been, Lauren? I saw Michael zip by here on the way to the lake this morning. My goodness, how that boy has grown. I almost didn’t recognize him.”
“Tell me about it. I wish he’d stop.”
“Oh no, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I kind of do,” I say, frowning. “He’ll be a senior this year and then off to college. I’m not ready for that.”
She shoves away from the counter. “I remember when my daughters were about the ages of Michael and Maddie, and I was so upset about it. Just beside myself. What would I do with my time? I’d been a stay-at-home mom all my life—of course, there weren’t the opportunities for women back then like there are now. I couldn’t have started my own company and ruled the world like you.”
My cheeks flush.
“Story Books,” she says, grinning widely. “Did that name have something to do with the cabins up here? Story Books, Story Brook—I couldn’t help but wonder.”
A wash of warmth floods my veins. “I did my very first scrapbook up here the summer before Michael was born. My parents died when I was eighteen.”
She nods.
“And, well, my mom didn’t save much from my childhood. There’s nothing for me to look back on and remember or use to jog my memory. I didn’t want that for my children. I wanted them to have this history of their parents someday to keep.” I shrug. “I made a little note in the first one all the way back then that said, ‘Story Book Number One.’ It just somehow stuck, I guess.”
“I think it’s perfect.” She organizes my items in front of her. “I saw you on the television, and I have to say, you were the most interesting one on there. I liked the woman that makes wreaths—well, I liked her wreaths. She didn’t seem too excited about it.”
“She was probably just nervous. We were linked via video, which I thought would help my nerves. Being in an actual studio in New York City would’ve been worse, I think. But they just gave us two weeks’ notice. I got a call asking if I would be up for a segment about businesses run from home that got started on social media. I didn’t know what to expect, and I bet the wreath woman didn’t either.”
She smiles. “You’re always so sweet.”
“I bet my husband would disagree.”
Mrs. Shaw plops a notepad on the counter and finds a pencil. I mosey around the store as she tabulates my bill the old-fashioned way.
The thought of Jack takes my spirits down a notch.
I woke up disjointed this morning from a whole three hours of sleep. Jack’s breathing was steady, and his legs didn’t twitch all night long. The only time he moved was when Snaps burrowed around at the end of the bed. I was terrified I was going to accidentally kick the puppy and send him flying across the room. Why didn’t Jack crate train him? Why did he get a dog to start with? I’m not going to want to sleep with a dog in my bed.
Apart from Snaps, I was just so uneasy. I didn’t want to roll over and confirm Jack was awake because . . . what if he was? What then? What would we talk about? Would we talk or just lie there awake awkwardly?
Instead, I lay on my side facing the wall. The darkness was too deep to see anything and the silence too intense to do anything but breathe. It was odd, yet strangely comfortable, being next to him for eight hours without saying a word, counting the years we’ve shared this particular bed. Smiling at the memories. Getting teary over them all the same.
This is the life I wanted. Jack beside me. Our two beautiful children asleep upstairs. A peace outside and inside—of both the cabin and me.
“How is Jack?” she asks. “I feel like I just saw him. Michael is the spitting image of his daddy at that age. Has Harvey shown you pictures of Jack when he was a teenager?”
“Yes, I’ve seen a bunch of them. Harvey gave me a trunkful of pictures last winter. The kids and I had fun going through them and catching up on Jack’s shenanigans through the years.”