Chapter Nine

Emma

I’d love to say I’m one of those friendly, outgoing people who can make conversation with anyone, but I’m not. I’m the awkward girl who asks you about your shoe size randomly and launches that into a conversation about sushi a minute later. I’m the girl who says exactly what she’s thinking. Not because I’m brave or opinionated, but because I have little control over what falls out of my mouth at any given time.

Mrs. Robinson makes all that go away. She sits at the dining room table with her long silver hair tied up into a bun, sipping on a cup of coffee as she watches me bake.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d get a front-row seat to the process. This is a nice surprise. I love visiting whenever I get the chance to these days.” Her voice shakes when she speaks.

“Do you like baking?”

“Used to love it. Back in the day, when my kids were small, my husband and I owned the general store. I used to post a new pie recipe every week on the town bulletin board. People would come in just to tell me how much they loved the recipe.”

I pour a full bag of chocolate chips into my mixing bowl as I say, “What was your signature pie?”

“Oh, dear. I made the original mile-high apple. They still make it down at the diner. Have you had a slice yet?”

“No,” I smile, “but I feel like I’m missing out on something.”

She leans in, holding the mug in her paper-thin hand. “Well, there are apples, of course, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, a few cranberries, and a little something secret.”

“That sounds delicious.” I narrow my brows. “I think I need a secret ingredient, too.”

Mrs. Robinson grins. “Well, Nick seems to like you just as you are. I bet he loves those cookies, too.”

I tilt my head to the side and glance at the frail woman at my table before portioning out heaping spoonfuls of cookie mix onto the tray in front of me. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Nothing is personal, dear. We’re all alive to teach others how to live.”

I sit with what she’s said for a moment, dropping the last cookie onto the tray before sliding it into the oven. Most people aren’t this willing to be open, unless they’re bragging on social media.

“What did you and your husband do that made your marriage last so long? I love Nick so much. He’s everything to me and I don’t want to lose the butterflies.”

Mrs. Robinson sweeps a strand of hair back away from her face and settles the cow-shaped mug down onto the table before crossing her arms. “Come sit down, honey.”

I grab the bag of pecans off the counter and join her at the table, popping one into my mouth as I sit. It’s nearly lunchtime. I should probably offer her a meal after this.

Her soft hand lands against my arm and she looks toward me with bright eyes that shine under the LED light in the kitchen. “Your marriage to Nick will be as good as you want it to be, honey. People talk about falling in love, seeing stars, and feeling butterflies, but that’s not love. That’s a beautiful feeling, but it can’t be sustained. Love is holding on when it’s hard to find something to hold on to. Love is holding each other when everything around you is falling down. Love is a choice. You wake up every morning and you choose to give your best to someone because you believe that person is worth giving yourself to. That’s all it is. A series of choices. A belief in your partnership. And let me tell you, that feeling is better than butterflies and all the stars in the sky. I’d give just about anything to have another cup of coffee with my Moose.”

A tear streaks down my cheek as I reach out for her hand. “Why did you call him Moose?”

She smiles and pulls out her phone, scrolling down toward a snapshot she’s taken of an old picture that looks as though it hangs framed on the wall at home. “That’s my Moose.”

Studying the photo, it’s easy to see how he got the nickname. The man is massive. I don’t know how tall, but his head nearly touches the door frame, and he’s almost as wide too. I glance at Mrs. Robinson. “Damn! He was a handsome guy!”

A wide grin spreads onto her face as she turns her phone back toward her, admiring the photo for herself. “Yes, he was. My big, handsome moose of a man. But believe me, every day wasn’t peaches. We worked at our love every day. You and Nick will too.”

There’s something comforting about knowing I have control over love. Until now, I’d thought of it as an entity of its own. A breathing life that could come and go whenever it chose to. I knew we had to work on it, of course, but I never thought about love as a choice. A decision we make every day.

“Your cookies smell like they’re done, dear.” Mrs. Robinson glances back at the oven where there’s no timer set because I’m a flake. This is exactly why I shouldn’t be starting a cookie stand. I can barely remember my shoe size lately, let alone all the tiny details that go into a business.

Pushing back the chair, I take one step forward and then another, but something isn’t right. The room is spinning and suddenly I’m nauseous. I grip the edge of the counter and attempt to level myself, but it’s no use. A stabbing ache pierces into my left ear, then my right, as a pulsing ache takes over my temples. Agony is the only description for this pain. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt in my life.

My vision wavers and the taste of metal permeates my tongue like I’ve been sucking on coins.

What the hell?

“Dear, what’s wrong?” I know Mrs. Robinson is close, but she sounds like she’s underwater. Her shaking hand lands on my back. “Come on. Let’s get you laid down. I’m gonna call Nick.”

Nick. All I want is Nick. I feel safe when he’s around.

I shuffle forward, holding my head as though it might crack open and spill out onto the kitchen floor for everyone to see. I wonder what would happen then. Would Nick move on? Would he fall in love with someone else? Would he love her more than he loves me? Maybe she would annoy him less. I’m sure she would.

“Honey…” Mrs. Robinson’s voice echoes behind me as my knees buckle and I land on the hard wood floor. It’s cooler down here, but the floor is dirty. I make a note to sweep the second I wake up from this nap.