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“Family,” Carson echoed. The other brothers bobbed their heads.

I searched each of them, hopping face to face. For the first time since I’d returned to Poppy Valley, I felt like I belonged.

15

ROOTS AND REMINDERS

LACEY

The guest bedroomat the Goodson house hadn’t changed much in the years I’d been away. The walls were still soft yellow, in a warm and friendly hue. I ran a hand along the square mirror above the dresser, its frame carved by Hudson and his dad back in high school for his woodworking project. It’d turned out so fine, he’d put it into the county fair that summer and won first prize in its category.

Some things like this I recalled so vividly. Other things, like the sound of my dad’s voice, had faded over time.

The bed creaked in a familiar, comforting way, as I balled up on top, bringing the quilt around me like a protective shell. The patchwork of old flannel shirts and faded denim had been stitched together by Mama Goodson.

The closet still had her extra craft bins lining the bottom, and a shelf filled with fabric she swore she was going to use to make more quilts someday. Some might call it clutter. At the moment, it was the safest place in the world to me.

I sat upright at the notification sound from my phone on the nightstand. I sniffed and wiped my cheeks, the tears never ending. It was a message from Archer.

Archer: Any decision yet about coming back to NY? Brooks took off with Maisy for some island time and I’m drowning in contracts and chaos. Please say yes.

I gaped at the screen. A week ago, I might’ve said yes without hesitation. But now?

Lacey: I lost my family home tonight in a fire. Everything’s gone.

My phone rang immediately. I picked up, holding it to my ear with a shaky hand.

“Lacey?” Archer’s voice was a mix of businesslike concern and genuine worry.

“I’m here,” I croaked.

“Shit. I’m so sorry to hear this news. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, my voice cracking.

A knock came on the door. I didn’t even try to hide the tears.

“Come in,” I called.

Mama stepped in, holding a steaming mug. “Warm milk,” she offered gently. “Always helped me sleep after long nights.”

I smiled weakly at her, grateful. Into the phone, I said, “I’ll have to call you back, Archer.”

She set the mug on the nightstand and sat beside me; the mattress dipping. I set the quilt aside.

“I can’t stop crying,” I admitted. “That was my old boss in New York. He’s offered me my job back. Sounds like he really needs me.”

Mama didn’t rush to speak. Instead, she stood and moved toward the closet. From the highest shelf, she pulled down a photo album, wrapped in tissue paper.

“I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to give you this,” she said, sitting beside me again and placing the album in my lap.

I eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“When your mama started swapping out photos around her house, we got to talking. I had some of my own, and she had others. So we made copies. Spent whole afternoons reminiscing about each one. I didn’t know why, at the time, but I felt compelled to put them in an album. Now I’m grateful I did. They can replace the ones you lost tonight.”

I opened it to the first page where a picture of Mama and my mother, both in their twenties, stood arm in arm beside their husbands. All four of them looked sun-kissed and happy on the beach at the lake.

Mama got misty-eyed. “That was our senior year of high school. Double date to the lake. Ran out of gas on the way to taking your mother home. Your daddy had to walk a mile in cowboy boots to get gas.”