by Laura Miller
I take off my cap and refit it over my head. I’m beginning to think it’s a nervous habit.
“To see you,” I say. “And to tell you that ... I might not be the best at figuring out how to maneuver my way around this life, but I know what I want. I always have.”
Her face turns downward. And when her gaze flickers back up, there are tears in her eyes.
I hate that there are tears in her eyes.
“Berlin, what are we doing?”
I swallow and then slowly shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “Going a hundred miles an hour and not thinking about the consequences.”
She laughs despite her tears. And then her eyes stumble upon mine.
“I couldn’t do it.”
“What?” I ask.
“I couldn’t marry him.”
For the first time, I look down at her left hand. There’s no ring on her finger.
My stare travels the short distance to the floor, while a long, steady breath tunnels past my lips.
“Why are you here, Iva?” I ask, carefully looking back up.
She runs her fingers through her hair and shifts her weight to her other leg. She’s stalling—maybe to gather her words; I don’t know. I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say.
“I left here to chase my dreams.” She looks straight into my eyes. “And one day,” she says, pausing to take a breath, “I just realized I had caught them all.”
She shrugs her shoulders and attempts to smile.
“All but one,” she adds.
A tear slides down her cheek. And in the quiet that follows, I slowly walk over to her and wipe the tear away.
This girl has my heart. She’s the only one that ever has.
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
“Iva, which dream is that?” I whisper near her ear, just barely getting the words out.
She closes her eyes, sending more tears racing down her cheeks. I wipe those away, too. Then, finally, she smiles, and it’s not long, and her lips part: “The one with you in it.”
Epilogue
Iva
“You ready?”
I look at my momma and smile.
“Yes,” I say.
We’re in the Church of Christ, down the street from where Berlin and I first fell in love.
They came back. The people came back to Sweet Home. They pushed the ghosts out, and they filled up all those unloved houses and boarded-up buildings. They filled them up again with light and conversation and laughter and life.
They started trickling in after Berlin bought The Lighthouse Inn. But if you ask Berlin today, he’ll tell you that it was Mr. Keeper and his lighthouse in the woods that guided them all home.
Either way, there are no boards covering up God’s doors or windows anymore. In fact, today, blues and reds and yellows pour through the stained glass, making little rainbow prisms, which dance on every pew.
My momma smiles at me and then gathers my veil and gently lays it over my face.
“You look beautiful, honey.”
“Thank you, Momma.”
She squeezes me tight and then finds her place in the front of the procession.
I force out a breath and then look over at my daddy.
“Your momma’s right,” he says.
I interlock my arm with his, being careful not to bump my rose bouquet. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“She’s always been right,” he adds.
I look back up at him, but his stare remains straight ahead.
“Maybe I should have listened to her a long time ago,” he says.
At that, I lower my head and smile to myself. “It’s okay, Daddy.”
The processional music starts, and then one by one, the couples make their way down the aisle, until it’s me and Daddy’s turn.
I hear the song from the old pipe organ change, and then the ushers open the doors one final time.
And then I see him—that little boy from Sweet Home—that same little boy in that ugly brown seat on that yellow school bus; that same little boy standing in that window in Angel’s old house across the street; that same little boy, pushing one hundred, behind the wheel of that cherry-red Chevelle. I see that same little, long-haired, wild boy—dressed in black—for whom my heart has always longed.
I squeeze my daddy’s arm, and together, we walk down the aisle toward the man that little boy became.
I can’t take my eyes off him. And the closer I get to that alter, the more the people surrounding us dissolve into the white walls of this little church. And soon, it’s as if we’re the only two souls left in this great, big world. Of course, it was always like that with me and him.
A big smile lights up Berlin’s face, and immediately, I feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
I love this man from Channing, Kansas, just as much as I love that boy from Sweet Home. And I love all of him—every last, wild and crazy piece.
Daddy lifts my veil and kisses me on the cheek when we reach the alter. And then he turns to Berlin.
Berlin extends his hand, and for a long second, Daddy just looks at it. And in that moment, you could have heard a pin drop to these old floors. But then, just like that, Daddy reaches out and firmly grasps Berlin’s hand.
I can see that Daddy’s eyes are red. In all my years, I’ve never seen him cry.
They stay just like that, until a slow-moving smile gradually reaches Daddy’s eyes. And then he nods. And Berlin nods, too. And then Daddy turns and finds his seat next to Momma in the front pew.
And then it’s just Berlin and me.
He takes my hand and gently caresses the tops of my fingers, grazing the yellow diamond.
“You look so beautiful,” he says.
I press my lips together, before letting go of a happy smile. Then, carefully, he leans into me and breathes a soft whisper into my ear: Our greatest dreams are born under the stars.
And with that, he looks up.
I follow his gaze to the ceiling, and I immediately see them.
High above us are my neon stars. I know they’re mine because I recognize the ones with the blue stripes.
I try not to let the tears fall, as I find his eyes again. There’s a look on his face now.
I know that look.
That look is love. That look is home.
I’m home.
It took nearly a decade, but I’m finally home. I’m finally where I belong.
And suddenly, I remember that little firefly that I sent up to heaven once upon a time. And I thank God for answered prayers.
For how close had we come?
How close had we come to going through this life with only half of our hearts?
I feel a tear slide down my cheek. Berlin wipes it away. And with his gentle touch, I hear my soul whisper to my heart: We’re free.
We were spared.
Our souls will never again be forced to wander.
Our hearts will never again feel ache for the other.
And from now until forever, we will never have to look back and long for the life we almost had.
I am where my soul has always been—with this wild boy from Sweet Home. And today, my heart is full—and finally, at rest.
The End
I don’t believe in endings, when it comes to you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Creating these characters and stories is a dream come true. So, as always, I thank God, first, for giving me the desires of my heart. Seriously, never stop dreaming! And never stop believing that God answers prayer! He can do more than we could ever imagine, and because He lives in us, we can, too! So, dream big.
And thank you to my amazing editors, beta readers and sources for all your time and contributions. Thank you especially to Donna, Calvin, Kathy, April, Sharon, Jon, Jesse and Mike. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. None of my stories would be what they are today without you!
And thank YOU, for reading. Through these stories I have had the wonderful privilege of getting to kn
ow so many of you. I feel truly blessed to have had that opportunity to meet you, talk with you and become amazing friends with so many of you. I know there are so many stories out there. Thank you for taking a chance on my small-town characters. Thank you for taking the ride with them—for pulling for them, for cheering them on. And as always, thank you for cheering me on! I am forever grateful.
Also, I would like to say a special thank you to all the amazing bloggers all over the world for their enthusiasm and loyal support and love of fairy tales. Many readers know my stories because of you. So, please know that we, as writers, are ever grateful for your commitment to literature.
I would like to thank my family as well, including Jack, Aurora, Levi and Augustus, who continue to be my biggest fans and greatest supporters. And thank you also to my friends and mentors, who are ever inspiring me along the way.
And because it always comes back to you, lastly, I would like to thank my best friend and husband, Neville. This has been an adventure from Day One, and you have been with me every step of the way. I can’t imagine taking this journey with anyone else. I have heard it said that the sexiest thing someone can do for you is inspire you to think a thought you never thought possible. And honey, you do that for me every day. Thank you for encouraging me to dream. Thank you for believing in me. I love you—as sure as the sky is blue.
BONUS
A letter to Julia from Will
From the best-selling novel,
BUTTERFLY WEEDS
Jules,
I’m watching you stare out the window. Your hair is down. It falls over your shoulder as you lay your head against the sill. I’m sure you’re dreaming. I swear, your mind never stops.
As your eyes follow the world outside that window, you think I’m writing another song.
And I am.
With every curve in your smile and every designful shift in your stare, I’m writing. In fact, in every word I’ve ever written, and in every word I will ever write, you’ll be there—hidden in the letters scratched in ink on this lined paper, immortalized in the lyrics scrolling down the page and woven into the melody that plays in my heart. You’ll be there, and yet, you won’t ... because I could never personify you fully in words. Words will never be able to capture the smooth beauty of your whisper or the potency of your touch or even the way your eyes read my secret thoughts—even from afar off.
So, you think I’m over here, writing a song.
And I am.
You are my song, Jules.
I love you, my butterfly. A million times a million. And to the moon and back.
Love,
Will
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Neville Miller
LAURA MILLER is the national best-selling author of the novels: Butterfly Weeds, My Butterfly, For All You Have Left, By Way of Accident, When Cicadas Cry, A Bird on a Windowsill and The Life We Almost Had. She grew up in Missouri, graduated from the University of Missouri-Columbia and worked as a newspaper reporter prior to writing fiction. Laura currently lives in the Midwest with her husband. Visit her and learn more about her books at LauraMillerBooks.com.
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Butterfly Weeds
My Butterfly
For All You Have Left
By Way of Accident
When Cicadas Cry
A Bird on a Windowsill
“BEAUTIFUL.”
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"THIS IS PURE ROMANCE AT ITS BEST."
~Kathy Reads Fiction on My Butterfly
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~A Novel Review on For All You Have Left
“Newcomers will have their faith in good literature restored.”
~Books to Breathe on By Way of Accident
“Filled with small-town charm.”
~2 Book Lovers Reviews on When Cicadas Cry
“SO GOOD.”
~BF Bookies on A Bird on a Windowsill
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“Young love at its finest.”
~Jesus Freak Reader on A Bird on a Windowsill
“A beautiful and charming love story.”
~Cinco Garotas Exemplares on When Cicadas Cry
~Nancy’s Romance Reads on For All You Have Left
“A STUNNING READ.”
~Pretty Little Book Reviews on A Bird on a Windowsill
~Back Porch Romance Book Reviews on My Butterfly
“A BEAUTIFUL STORY.”
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