Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas

by Pepper Basham

  “Let me look at you.” Mom held tight to Emma’s arms. “You’re too skinny, for starters.”

  Emma’s laugh floated like steam from the teacups. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds.”

  “Well, then you’ve put it in all the right places.”

  He could attest to that.

  Sawyer shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. Only then did his mother look over at him.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “You’re here too.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Mom.”

  But she had already moved on. She clutched Emma’s hand and stepped toward the room that she and Emma had affectionately dubbed “the library.” They both thought it would make an excellent addition to the back area of the tea shop, as if the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the rest of the place weren’t enough.

  In reality, the tiny library was a room with so many dusty books, a person might leave with bronchitis. He had never understood the appeal of these unrealistic happily-ever-after’s. Maybe, in part, because of what happened to his own.

  Sawyer followed them, taking care to leave a good three steps’ worth of space. Close enough to be part of their conversation, but far enough away that they wouldn’t get any radical ideas about his interest in the library.

  “But sugar, why are you here?” Mom flipped on the lights. Two dozen roses sat on the reading table at the center of the room—a birthday gift from his father.

  The small room contained a bay window which his mother had outfitted with a couch she’d seen on Instagram. Because a velvet reading couch was a very practical addition to any room with so little floor space, a guy was bound to trip over one of the five editions of Mansfield Park his mother insisted upon keeping at all times.

  Emma stole a glance at him as if he would answer his mother’s question on her behalf.

  “Don’t look at me.” Sawyer rocked back on the heels of his shoes. “All I know is what you said in your imaginary conversation with your mama.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and continued looking his way. What was she trying to tell him? “I’m selling my parents’ property in three weeks and came here to be sure everything is in order.”

  Sawyer rubbed the five o’clock shadow of his jaw. He started to speak, then stopped himself.

  His mother hesitated too. She was rarely a woman without words, so no doubt, Emma recognized the significance of the occasion.

  “It’s just… I love the farm.” Em looked down. “I’ll always love the farm. But I’m at a different place in my life now, and I have my grant writing…” She slid her hands into the pockets of her cherry red dress. “My parents are nearly done with the move into their waterfront house in Fairhope. You probably knew that.”

  Yes. He’d helped pack and haul many of their boxes. Sawyer stood still.

  “They gave the farm to me. I’ve given it a lot of thought—and of course I’ll always adore the place—but I can’t build a future from sentiment.”

  He held her gaze and for a moment thought to ask, why not?

  Emma set one hand against the bookshelf. “I’m trying to establish myself as a grant writer and can use the money from the sale of the property to help start my own business.”

  “Good for you, sweetheart.” Mom busied herself straightening the roses, but her smile was sad. Did Emma not see it? Or was she going to ignore the ramifications of her hasty decision?

  Mom stepped over to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Before I forget, there’s actually something I’ve wanted to give you.” With her index finger, she nudged an old book from where it’d sat with a rim of dust around the binding.

  She cradled the book in her arms as she walked over to Emma. Recognition lit Em from within. The two of them exchanged a knowing, silent sentiment about which Sawyer was clueless. They may as well have been speaking French as far as he was concerned.

  Sawyer crossed his arms and leaned against the bookshelf opposite his mother. Surely the dusty book was part of some larger plan on her part.

  She set one hand on Emma’s shoulder. “It’s yours, sweetheart.”

  “I can’t accept this, Mrs. Hammonds. It’s too much.” Emma shook her head but began flipping through the pages until she reached a watercolor illustration from “Beauty and the Beast.” Her fingers lingered over the picture of Belle dancing with the Beast.

  Mom tsk-ed under her breath. “Nonsense, honey. You’ve always loved it—ever since you were a child. I want you to have it. Don’t disappoint this old woman.” She leaned closer then winked at Emma. “Besides, so few people around here share my love of stories.”

  Sawyer laughed. “I’m standing right here, Mom.”

  She grinned over her shoulder at him and started toward the door. “I think I heard a customer. I’ll give you two a few minutes to catch up.”

  Sawyer suspected the “customer” was as imaginary as these fairytales, but nonetheless, he appreciated the gesture. He waited until his mother was out of earshot to speak up. “I’m just going to say it.”

  Emma took a step closer. Her sudden nearness tickled his skin with the rise of a magnet. “What’s that, Sawyer?”

  He wanted to touch her hair, to take her in his arms and kiss some sense into her.

  But that was not an option, so words would have to suffice. He thought, and thought fast. “Sell it to me.”

  Emma’s gaze fixed with panic.

  He started to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. “You don’t have to look at me as if you’re doing a deal with a monster.”

  Two petals shuffled down from the roses to the ground.

  Emma paled and shook her head. “I already have a potential buyer coming in three weeks.”

  “So give me three weeks.” Sawyer shrugged. Seemed like plenty of time.

  Emma’s eyes widened. “To do what, exactly?”

  “Talk you into giving me a bargain.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll fix up the place free of charge, so long as you agree to hear me out.” He grinned. Yes, this plan was sounding better by the second. “Surely you can agree the house needs work, as does the land. At the end of three weeks, sell it to whoever you want.”

  “You’re stubborn as a mule, Sawyer, and you’re not listening. You will never get your hands on my family’s land, you hear me? I made that decision long ago, the day I gave back your mama’s ring.”

  Sawyer blinked.

  This was going to be harder than he thought.

  3

  Twilight had begun its watercolor descent behind the stretching limbs of the bare pecan trees as Sawyer and Emma walked up the porch of her family’s home. The ten-minute drive back from The Wistful Teacup had been filled with so much steely silence, a tension headache had formed behind her eyes.

  She’d told herself the whole way home that he deserved every word she spoke. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t stop replaying the scene in her mind. Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe he was just trying to help, after all. But the knowledge that he wanted her family’s farmhouse had been too much to take. The thought of him owning the place turned her stomach.

  Emma hugged the antique fairytale book his mother had just gifted her. She had adored the book as a child, down to the little doodles on the pages that breathed with meaning. She was fascinated by each fairytale, yes—but equally fascinated by the stories of the women who had read it in generations prior.

  Emma had always wondered about them. Who drew those little doodles? Cinderella herself? And how did the book end up in Boston? Had those women found their happily-ever-after's? And if they had, then maybe now that the book was in her own possession…

  When Emma was still a young girl, Sawyer’s mom had found the book at an estate sale in Boston while on a family vacation. Mrs. Hammonds’ little library was just beginning in those days, and she’d come home from their trip beaming about the treasure she’d found.

  Emma n
ever forgot the magic of those pages between her own tiny fingers—a magic that could only belong to childhood dreams. Truth be told, the book currently in her arms had not only shaped her love for story, but also her dream of living in the city. Part of her always believed if she could just get to Boston herself, she would find her own happily-ever-after.

  But instead, all she’d found was great tea, jaw-dropping history, and a winter that was colder than her wildest dreams. Not exactly the stuff of fairytales. Quite the contrary. In a word, reality.

  Emma brushed her thumb against the cover. It was silly, but holding this book again quickened her heart as one who is suddenly reunited with her dreams.

  Sawyer hesitated on the top step of her family’s porch then pivoted to face her. The navy front door and all its golden fixtures served as a backdrop.

  The house, like the door, told a story. A hundred-year-old story going all the way back to her grandparents. The two of them had shared the grandest of happy marriages, and her parents had followed suit. Emma had once imagined herself and Sawyer taking family photos in front of that same door, their two kids posing on Christmas Sunday or before high school graduation. She’d once imagined this house might be her own happily-ever-after.

  My, was she ever naïve.

  Sawyer waited for her to join him on the step. He rubbed his palms with his thumbs. “So, about earlier.” He reached out and leaned one hand against the porch rail. “You were right, Em. And I’m sorry.”

  Emma took a half-step backward. Was Sawyer Hammonds apologizing? What was this new phenomenon, and when had it begun?

  “Back in college, I was a fool for letting you go.” Their eyes locked as he shook his head. “I’ve always regretted how things ended between us.”

  Emma stood stunned even as heart began to gallop freely. These were the words she had waited years for him to say. Try as she had to forget what happened with him—and Lord knew she’d tried everything from Pilates to Ben & Jerry’s—she never could move on.

  So the only way to move forward was moving away. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. But now, she wasn’t so sure. What would her life have been like if she’d stayed?

  Emma looked down at her boots as she shuffled them back and forth against the porch. A glance up showed the colors of twilight had deepened. Leaves along the porch steps rustled, and the breeze chilled her arms.

  She would give anything to be able to trust his words and fall into his arms. But she could not risk the heartbreak she experienced last time. She had barely managed to put the pieces back together and made a promise to herself long ago that no one would ever break her heart like that again—a promise that had been easy enough to keep because Sawyer was across the country. And Sawyer was the only one she would ever love quite like that.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, truly. But I’m intent on selling the house and using the money to support my writing.”

  He straightened his broad shoulders until he was every bit of his six-foot-two-inch frame. His height had seemed an important asset when planning her prom footwear nearly a decade ago. Little did she know then that he’d be polishing his running shoes.

  “Well, we all know how you are when you put your mind to something.” Sawyer straightened his ball cap and sighed.

  Yes we do, don’t we?

  “Em, it’s just—well, things have been hard these past few years. I don’t hold it against you. Your mother isn’t the type to complain about the harvest over the phone. I’m sure you had no way of knowing the truth.” His expression softened, and the setting sun glimmered in his eyes. “But sugar, truth is, there haven’t been enough hands around to do the work. Pecans don’t harvest themselves.”

  Something about the way he said pah-cahns sent Emma straight into a conniption. She took one step closer. “Listen up. Yes, I may have been absent these past few years, but I never stopped being a part of this family. The land is mine to sell or keep.”

  He clenched his jaw and waited several moments before responding. Then he ducked down to look straight into her eyes once more. “Won’t you let me help fix this place? No obligation you’ll sell it to me.”

  He was clearly still stubborn as could be, but this humility—however flickering—was a side of him she hadn’t seen. For years, her mother had insisted Sawyer Hammonds was a changed man and that Emma ought to return home to see for herself.

  She’d assumed Mama was just trying to get her back to Alabama. But what if her mother really had noticed something? Mama always did have knack for seeing things other people couldn’t—like a candle sweeping light into spaces that’d long been darkened.

  Even still, what difference did it make? Emma had her grant writing back in Boston as well as the ghost writing she’d been doing. Sure, her own name wasn’t on the covers of those books, but her work was being published. That was something, right? A step toward her dream of writing novels.

  “Just let it go, Sawyer.” Emma fluffed her hair as she took two steps toward the front door. “I’ve got a life waiting for me back in Boston, and I need the money this other buyer is bringing.”

  Besides, I can’t bear the thought of you living in this house like we’d always planned and dreamed.

  “Whatever you say, Em.” Sawyer reached around her shoulder to ring the doorbell. “By the way—” He turned to look at her. “I read all your novels. You’ve got a real gift for it. Don’t know why you’re using other people’s names instead of taking credit for your own work, but you’re talented.”

  Emma blinked. “You read—”

  “Your novels. All of them.” Sawyer grinned.

  “But how did you know…”

  “Your mama passes those things out like candy.” He reached to brush a stray strand of hair from Emma’s forehead, and despite herself, she welcomed his touch. “Didn’t you know?”

  Emma was still staring at him, wide-eyed and floored by this new revelation that Sawyer Hammonds had read her stories when Mama opened the door.

  “As I live and breathe. Emmaline.” Mama didn’t give Emma a chance to respond before throwing her arms around her and squeezing as if there were no tomorrow.

  Emma reached up to pat her mother’s shoulder. Her cheek was too squashed against Mama’s pearls to speak a reply.

  “Grace, did I hear you say—” Daddy’s words were cut short as he rounded the corner. “She’s home.” Emma eased herself from her mother’s embrace to get a good look at her him.

  His hug was far gentler but just as warm. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”

  Emma smiled. It’d been months since they’d visited her in Boston, and oh, how she’d missed them. But she couldn’t have Daddy thinking her return might be permanent. “Well, I’m not back exactly… I’ve come to get the property ready. Then I have to get back to Boston.” Before she fell under Sawyer’s spell all over again.

  Mama waved the comment away with one swat of her hand. “Yes, yes. Of course. Your father just means it’s good to see you. That’s all.” She tucked her gray hair behind her ears, and her diamond earrings sparkled. Then she grinned at Sawyer.

  His gaze had lingered on Emma, and she felt her willpower slipping. The next few weeks could not pass quickly enough as far as she was concerned.

  “Come in, you two.” Mama opened the door wider. “There’s no sense in you standing out on the porch all night long.” She leaned closer and murmured so only Emma would hear the next part. “This isn’t high school, after all.”

  “Mama!” Emma hissed. She felt the warmth of Sawyer’s hand on her back as they filed through the front door.

  Dear Lord, please tell me he didn’t hear that.

  Daddy closed the door behind them. He wore an untucked button-down—his casual attire—and smelled like the same aftershave he’d used since she was a child. The familiar smell made her long for simpler days of home. Days before life had gotten in the way and muddled everything.

  Emma set her book on the table at the entryway then walked past
the stairwell and into the kitchen. If she could just get a glass of tea, maybe she could regroup before Mama had a chance to drop any more lively comments.

  She reached into the cabinet, paying no mind to the rest of the room, when a voice startled her from behind.

  “Emmaline.”

  Emma nearly dropped the glass.

  “Grandma?” She swallowed hard and turned toward her grandmother. Facing Mama after all this time was one thing, but facing Grandma Dorothea was another thing entirely. “What are you doing here?”

  Her grandmother approached with the tenacity of a cat after a beetle. “Delightful to see you too, dear.”

  Emma closed the space between them with a hug. “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m just surprised, is all.” Was it Emma’s imagination, or was Grandma Dorothea’s touch reserved?

  Her grandmother simply watched her, no doubt cataloging the split ends in her hair and the chips in her nail polish, until Sawyer and her parents entered the kitchen.

  “Sawyer.” She lit up like a firefly at the sight of him. “What a nice surprise to see you joining us for supper tonight.”

  Sawyer pulled Grandma Dorothea into a side hug and kissed the top of her hair-sprayed curls. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to see you.”

  Grandma Dorothea laughed, lacing her arm behind his back. Then she tapped her broken wristwatch. The antique had stopped ticking years ago, before Emma left for Boston, but her grandmother still wore it religiously.

  “Still wearing that, I see.” Emma pointed to the watch.

  “One of these days, this thing is going to start ticking again. Mark my words.”

  Mama nudged Grandma Dorothea with her elbow. “Always with your eye on the clock.” She reached for a match to light a candle on the kitchen bar.

  Grandma smiled. “Just like you with your candles, Grace. Always carrying them to and fro.”

  “I do love a good candle.” Mama turned toward Emma. “Honey, I thought you were getting in tomorrow.” She opened a top cabinet and stood on her tiptoes to reach the glasses.