Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

A PURPLE FINCH IN A SPRUCE TREE

Jack

H olly is either blissfully unaware of the effect she has on me or a hard-core sadist. Given that much of the effect in question happened while she was sleeping , I’m going with the former. I resorted to plucking a random book from the stack by the chair to distract myself from her pink cheeks and little sleep sighs while she napped on the couch.

By a cruel quirk of fate, the book I chose was none other than Before the Storm Breaks , a prequel novel to the Jackie Samuel’s Resistance series Noelle was gushing over at the library. In fact, this particular book is so niche it’s never appeared on the banned and challenged books list, unlike the rest of the series. I almost put it down and chose another title. But it’s been a good five years, maybe longer, since I read any of the books in the series and, weird as this sounds, I thought perhaps fate led me to pick it up.

And by the time I was forty pages in, I knew I was right. The prose took me back to a past Jack. Teenaged Jack, with all his questioning, raging, and flailing. Early twenties Jack, with all his screwups, false starts, and failures. But as they always did, the characters reassured me that I’d find the light, carve a path, do the thing. While it remains an open question whether I’ve done that, the book, man, it didn’t disappoint. By the time Holly’s adorable sleep sounds faded and she stirred, I was just two chapters from the end and had to blink away tears before I looked up at her.

Reading the book did two things: it successfully kept me from violating the courtship rules the same day we agreed to them, and it reminded me why I’m on this banned book crusade in the first place. People—kids, yes, but big people, too—need stories like these. Stories that challenge them. Sad, even tragic, stories. Stories about characters on the margins. When I look at it through this lens, even the threat of jail time doesn’t dissuade me. Screw Anderson Wilson Carson and screw Citizens Upholding Normal Traditions.

As Holly and I cross the frozen path from the little cottage to the inn, my mind is on the books. I can hardly wait to put my head together with Noelle and plan the holiday banned book bingo. I’m lost in thought when Holly gasps and clutches my arm.

I turn. She’s pointing toward a small rose-pink bird with dark gray tail feathers perched on a limb of one of the snow-covered spruce trees lining the walking path. It turns its bright black eyes toward us.

“It’s a purple finch,” she whispers.

“It’s not purple,” I whisper back.

She laughs. “I know. Poor thing has been misnamed. Merry used call them raspberry birds.”

“That’s more fitting.”

“They were one of my mom’s favorite signs of Christmas. I haven’t seen one since she …”

I wait a moment, but she doesn’t go on. I clear my throat. “We have a bird called the red junglefowl in the Keys. They look kind of like dressed-up roosters.”

She raises an eyebrow and coughs out a laugh, so I keep talking. “They do. They have brilliant red combs, golden breast feathers, and bright emerald bodies with these majestic onyx black tail feathers. Anyway, one December, when money was tight, we woke up to see an army of these things in our backyard. My mom told me and my brother they were partridges looking for a pear tree. That year, our gifts were all things from the song, and Sam and I thought the ‘partridges’ had come there especially for us.”

I chuckle at the memory, and she smiles up at me. “Your mom must have had a vivid imagination.”

“You have no idea,” I tell her.

There’s one fat tear shining on her cheek. I take off my glove and wipe it away. Her breath catches in her throat and she stares at me, her lips parting. I lean forward. Then she shakes her head and croaks, “Rule 1.8.”

I exhale in a loud whoosh that earns me a scolding from the purple finch. Then I swallow. “Right. Rule 1.8.”

Holly rallies first.

“Come on,” she grabs my bare hand and drags me toward the house. “I’m starving. Let’s get some appetizers.”

This is going to be a long, long month.